


Handfuls of Dust

by sniperct



Series: Last Resort [4]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Anger Management, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle Couple, Bisexual Character, Bisexual Female Character, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking Kink, Complicated Relationships, Drama & Romance, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Established Relationship, F/F, Femslash, Lesbian Character, Magic, Major Character Death and Resurrection, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mortality, OT3, Original Character(s), Polyamory, Power Dynamics, Self-Hatred, Side Quests, Triad - Freeform, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Women In Power, anger issues, jaina still needs a nap, no one is straight, polycule
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2020-10-19 18:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 78,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20661548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sniperct/pseuds/sniperct
Summary: An old threat looms in the north and yet another rises to the surface...The Compact has stood for fifteen years. In that time, Jaina and Sylvanas’s relationship has transformed them from bitter enemies to stalwart lovers and the Horde and Alliance have closely followed suit.And yet, a shadowy conspiracy, a few well-timed assassinations, and a rising tide of war threatens to tear the world apart.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mylordshesacactus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylordshesacactus/gifts).
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much like Last Resort, this spawned out of my wanting to see if I could make a certain concept work, as well as seeding a few potential plot threads in LR to follow if I chose to. 
> 
> So here we are, and I'm going to tell you all a spoiler right now, because it's one of the central themes of _Handfuls of Dust_:
> 
> Jaina dies within the first ten chapters. Oh, she gets better in a manner of speaking, but how she comes to terms with becoming Forsaken and the circumstances surrounding it and all that delicious fallout, those are the interesting and exciting questions I wanted to find the answers for. I do, after all, like my happy endings, but the fun part is how to _get_ there, isn't it?

_I will show you something different from either_  
_Your shadow at morning striding behind you_  
_Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;_  
_I will show you fear in a handful of dust._

T.S. Eliot, **The Wasteland**

_ _ __ _ _

_ _ __ _ _

**Year 49  
***15 years after the signing of the Compact*****

__  
__  
Moonlight gleamed through a crack in the curtains.

_ _ __ _ _

If Valeera hadn’t already been awake, the gentle light on her face would have woken her regardless. She turned her head from the window as the body next to her shifted. Valeera fought the urge to caress green skin, warm and rough from a warrior’s life, though she did rest her hand on the woman’s hip momentarily.

When the human on the other side of the orc shifted in her sleep, Valeera used the movement to mask her own as she slid out of bed. It had been a pleasant diversion, but a diversion was all it was. 

Silently, Valeera dressed, slowly fastening each buckle on her armor and checking her daggers before she moved toward the window. The moon was hidden behind clouds now, but there was still just enough light to see the bed; with her absence, the two women had snuggled closer in their sleep. She _probably_ should have gotten their names, but it was better this way.

Valeera smiled and shook her head before carefully unlatching the window and easing it open. And then she slipped out into the night.

One floor down and two rooms to the left was another window, one she’d already scouted a few days before. After Valeera closed the one she’d climbed out of, she cautiously leapt over to the nearest window, dropped down one floor, and then jumped to her destination. 

As she’d prepared, the latch inside was partly undone, requiring only a thin wire to push up. The window swung open and Valeera caught it before it could smack against the wall or make any unnecessary noise. And then she waited for one minute. Two. 

After the third passed with no indication of activity within Valeera peered over the window frame, pushing the curtain aside. Her target lay in bed, chest rising and falling steadily. Pulling herself up and over, Valeera then lowered herself to the floor and crouched there, adjusting her mask. No movement from the bed, no sounds outside the door. Sliding a small blade out of her glove, she crossed the room and perched on the footboard of the bed.

The man had a great big, bushy black beard, and his blankets were tangled at the waist as he slept off his night’s inebriation. With how much ale he’d been drinking, he’d actually made Valeera’s job a whole lot easier. He wouldn’t wake up and clotting wouldn’t be a problem. 

He was huge, as many Kul Tirans were. Valeera moved off of the footboard, kneeling on the bed on his right as she studied his face, and then the tattoos on his arms and chest. They were distinctive, but her sources had indicated a particular design hidden among them; an anchor through the skull of an orc. 

Satisfied she had the right target, Valeera drew her blade across his throat and gave him a happy new smile. He drowned in his own blood in his sleep, which was a death far more gentle than Valeera would have otherwise wished on him. She watched the blood bubble, heard the rasping gasp of his dying breath, and smiled.

Once sure that he would never again wake up, Valeera padded to the window, checked around and then slipped out, using her wire to secure the latch back into place. Landing as silently as a cat, the assassin disappeared into the night.

Only after she’d gone did the moon emerge once more from the clouds.

****

***Six Months Ago***

Jaina lay motionless, her eyes closed, silver hair haloed around her head. Sylvanas stood over her, leaning her hands on a stone slab. It was silent, the air still, and Sylvanas dug her fingers into the stone until it started to crack. A wind rose up, suddenly, whipping her hair and cloak around her.

On the slab, Jaina’s eyes opened. She stared up at Sylvanas, then slowly lifted her hand. Her fingers brushed Sylvanas’s jaw, and then her cheek. There was rage in her wife’s eyes, pain etched into her features, but when she spoke, Jaina could not make out the words and yet knew instinctively they were a promise.

Lightning flashed overhead, and Jaina stood on a mountain, rain pouring from the sky. Thunder rolled from peak to peak. She looked around, trying to place herself, but the clouds hung low on the mountains and all she could see was light and shadow.

And there was a voice, no longer Sylvanas’s and yet no less unintelligible. A man’s voice, deep, but distant. As Jaina tried to make out what it was saying, hands suddenly burst out of the ground, grasping for her, slowing her down as she forced herself forward. It was like pushing against the tide, the hands tearing at her clothing, the air so thick she felt like she was drowning.

Jaina screamed Sylvanas’s name, but the sound could not escape her throat and opening her mouth only made it harder to breathe. She clawed at her chest, and then her throat, falling to her knees with a heavy, painful thud. 

Water crashed in towards her and then split into two rivers when it reached her. Jaina pulled herself up, made herself walk, her eyes on a distant, far away figure. 

She walked for a day. A year. A century. Choking on air, her head spinning and her vision blurring and those hands always trying to pull her apart. But the figure got closer, and she realized it was a man on a throne. A burned man. A tormented man. A man who’d once been a friend.

The world fell away and Jaina was spinning, spinning and falling and she hit the floor of her bedroom and jarred her shoulder. Her breathing came in great, rapid gasps and the blankets were twisted around her body like a cocoon.

And Sylvanas was there, lifting her up, untangling her and making sure she hadn’t hit her head on the table. Jaina let her fuss, resting her face in the hollow of Sylvanas's throat as she tried to grasp for the last shreds of the nightmare. It felt _important._

But the memory was gone and rather than try to put to words what she was feeling, Jaina lifted her head and kissed Sylvanas. 

While they’d been married nearly fifteen years, in Jaina’s heart this anniversary was their _tenth_. Though that fifth year had been overshadowed by war, Jaina still considered it the true beginning of their … equilibrium.

Sylvanas pulled away slightly. “And a happy anniversary to you too…. Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Jaina responded, pulling Sylvanas back. And she didn’t, even if she could manage to remember enough to make the conversation useful. No, she needed this. Jaina rolled them, pushing Sylvanas onto her back, pinning her to the bed.

Sylvanas’s hand brushed her jaw, her chin, her cheek, her fingers finding the wrinkles around her eyes and at the corners of her lips, and stopped kissing back.

Jaina lifted her head, peering down at Sylvanas, already knowing what gave her pause. Jaina was human, mortal. And though due to her magic she aged much slower than most of her kind, still, she _aged_. It was only natural for Sylvanas’ thoughts, which tended toward melancholy on a good day, to linger on the subject tonight. And if the prospect of mortality frightened _Jaina_, it could make Sylvanas afraid, too. Turning her head, she tenderly kissed Sylvanas’s fingertips, one at a time. Her eyes found Sylvanas’s, and she stopped what she was doing and asked, “Do _you_ want to talk about it?”

“No,” Sylvanas replied, before Jaina became the one on her back and talking became the last thing on her mind.


	2. Tug of War

It had been months since Tyra had stepped foot into Orgrimmar and she took a deep breath she didn’t need as she crossed through the gates. 

In life Tyra had followed Jaina, across the sea and in battle alongside elves and orcs alike at Hyjal, and in death she’d followed Sylvanas, so her role had always felt appropriate; first as bodyguard slash warden, and then as Champion of the Banshee Queen.

Orgrimmar held her heart. It was the closest thing to home she had any more, though her flag would forever be planted in Lordaeron. It held her Dark Lady and her Kalira and it held Jaina Proudmoore. They, each of them, had lost one home and built another. As good a family as Tyra could have hoped for.

And Orgrimmar was exactly as she’d left it. Banners waved in the breeze, dozens for each of the races of the Horde and for upcoming festivities too.

She grinned, allowing a bounce to her step as she stopped at a familiar stall and made a familiar order and then carried a familiar meal into Grommash Hold where she knew her family was waiting.

Tyra could move quietly when she wanted, even in her full plate, and she peered around and into the hold to see Sylvanas leaning close to Jaina on their thrones. There appeared to be no one else present, though from practice (and creating the security) she knew there were at least three rangers hidden… somewhere. They probably already knew she was there, even if Sylvanas somehow didn’t, which would be next to impossible.

She thought she saw a pair of blood red eyes high up in one alcove and smiled in that direction, as there was only one person who’d make themselves known to her that way. Then, Tyra stepped into the hold, displaying several sausages-on-a-stick like one would prizes won in battle. “Warchief! Lady! I brought yeh lunch an’ I’ve got me report ready.”

Jaina, naturally, looked delighted to see both her and the sausage, taking one from Tyra eagerly. “I see you’ve come with bribes.”

“Or to murder us,” Sylvanas groused, not sounding all that irritated to Tyra’s ears; but then it was hard to tell with her Lady sometimes.

Tyra glanced around, and Sylvanas’s lips twitched. The Warchief called out, “Kalira, come down and greet your wife. And collect your so-called meal before it drips all over the floor.”

Kalira dropped down from the alcove Tyra had looked in before, the Dark Ranger giving her a look best described as fondly annoyed as she took a sausage from her. “You’ve been gone for four months and _this_ is what you bring me? Are you _asking_ for a divorce?”

“Y’should see what else I brought yeh,” Tyra replied, waggling her eyebrows. She took a large bite from her own sausage, chewing quickly as she thought through on how to word her report since Sylvanas easily became impatient.

“Later,” Kalira said, eyeing Tyra suspiciously.

“Aye,” Tyra agreed, tossing her stick aside and clasping her hands behind her back as she gave the Warchief her full attention. “As yeh ordered, I traveled ‘round, seein’ things for meself as well as talkin’ to our spies all over. There’s some tension, but t’kind what yeh always see. Farmers bitchin’ at each other about their pigs an what-not an’ the occasional dispute resolved by a spellin’ bee. But it’s what people _ain’t_ sayin’ that’s interestin’.”

“Back up.” Jaina held up her hand. “_Spelling bee?_”

“What are people not saying?” Sylvanas asked.

Opting to answer the Dark Lady, Tyra replied, “Some folk ain’t thick as thieves no more, Warchief. Others gettin’ inta bed with each other.”

“We’re aware of Tyrande and Thalssyra,” Jaina interjected.

“Aye but… when was t’last time yeh were invited to a fancy Shal’dorei dinner?” Tyra asked. “Or the last time Whisperwind set foot in Stormwind for longer’n a few hours?” She could see the machinations behind Sylvanas’s eyes. “Now, Ladies, I don’t think either the Horde or Alliance is in danger of losin’ anyone, but the First Arcanist an’ High Priestess do spend a lot of time together…”

“Perhaps we ought to extend some overtures to the First Arcanist,” Sylvanas agreed. “Remind her of whose side she is actually on, and where she belongs.”

“Without threats,” Jaina suggested, raising her eyebrows at her wife.

“If you insist.” Sylvanas gestured at Tyra. “Anything else that can’t wait for a written report?”

“I paid a visit to Stromgarde while I was in the Eastern Kingdoms. Yeh sister’s preggers.” Tyra kept her face impassive as the Warchief went through the seven stages of grief before she said, “Nah. but she wanted me to describe t’look on yeh face.”

Kalira rushed forward, grabbing Tyra by the arm and starting to drag her out of the hold, calling back at the seething Warchief, “I’ll make sure you get her report by morning!”

Lowering her voice, Kalira hissed, “_Are you insane?!_”

Tyra threw her head back and cackled.

****

**********

One thing to arise from the Compact between Horde and Alliance had been the return of friendships and collaborations built up during the war against the Legion, and then thrown aside in the fervor of war.

The Order of the Silver Hand was one such alliance that flourished under the new peace, and Liadrin appreciated any opportunity to work and connect with Paladins she’d fought beside. Or, sometimes, against.

Heavy bootsteps approached her as she leaned on a fence, watching knights spar with each other. The wood creaked as an Alliance champion leaned on it, a wide smile on her face. “Lady Liadrin.”

“Lady Aveline.” Liadrin inclined her head to the dark-skinned woman. “I was not expecting to see you here until next week.”

“Our patrol was relieved early,” Aveline explained, tugging off her gauntlets and holding them under her arm. “It was uneventful, like usual.”

Liadrin sighed, glancing to the ring when one of the men sparring let out a victory woop. “Almost nine years and except for the occasional sighting out at sea, not a _single_ incident with Naga.”

“I want to say that’s good, but you know what they say about it being too quiet.” Aveline’s brown eyes were focused wholly on Liadrin, “I feel like the longer it stays that way, the worse it’ll be when it happens. Whatever _it_ might be.”

“Speaking of too quiet.” Liadrin fished a message out of her pouch and opened it with a snap of her wrist. “One of my Knights is stationed in Northrend. The Scourge have been quiet too.”

“I’d rather face Naga,” Aveline said, grimacing. Liadrin remembered that she was a veteran of the Northrend Campaign. It felt like centuries ago, instead of just over two decades. So young, then, and now a stark reminder of how humans aged, though Aveline had laugh lines and not just scars from war. The smattering of grey in her hair was another reminder of that.

“Naga don’t pop quite so delightfully when smashed in the face with a hammer,” Liadrin replied, holding out the note. 

Taking it, Aveline skimmed it over. “I’ll wrangle a couple of others and take a boat up to the Fjord. I don’t care how quiet it is; you never go into a place like that alone.”

“Handing out missions without me?” A smooth voice purred in Liadrin’s ear, just before Valeera Sanguinar slid into place on Liadrin’s other side. 

Aveline raised an eyebrow, then pushed off from the fence. “I better find the missus and put together my party.”

Valeera tried to reach past Liadrin and snatch the note away from Aveline, but the human was too quick. “I’d offer myself if you need someone sneaky, but I’ve got other plans.”

“I can tell.” Aveline eyed the way Valeera now had her arm around Liadrin, before turning away and leaving them alone. A nightsaber fell into step beside her.

Liadrin looked at Valeera’s hand on her shoulder, then turned towards the assassin. “So what are these plans of yours?”

“I don’t know yet. What did you have planned for your evening?”

Ignoring the glint in Valeera’s eyes, Liadrin focused her attention on the sparring paladins. “I wanted to get a few rounds in, show them how it’s done.”

Valeera’s hand moved, her finger trailing lightly along the underside of Liadrin’s right ear. It was bold, and forward, and she shivered in response but couldn’t bring herself to make Valeera stop. Valeera’s breath was warm against her left ear, her voice low and teasing. “Duel me, Lady. Maybe I’ll even let you win.”

“Oh, I’ll win,” Liadrin promised, slipping out from Valeera’s grip. “But I’ll extract what you’ll owe me at a later date.”

“An open ended bet is dangerous.”

“We _can_ just spar for fun,” Liadrin pointed out.

“Oh hell no.” Valeera held out her hand. “The dangerous bets are the best ones.”

****

**********

The ring was about 20 meters in diameter, which didn’t allow for as much movement as Valeera would have liked, but she’d fought tougher opponents in smaller spaces so she knew she’d do fine. As long as she kept her focus, she could top even one of the best Paladins in the world.

Liadrin practically shone as she stepped into the ring in recently commissioned armor. The primary color was a dark red, with gold highlights and engravings, and what had once been black was now a deeper shade of red than the rest. Beneath her swept-back helm Liadrin studied Valeera, the faintest of smiles on her face. “Head to toe black, today?”

“You’re not the only one who wanted a change.” Valeera drew her blades and rolled her shoulders, bouncing from heel to heel and knowing she wouldn’t be able to out-patient Liadrin. But she wouldn’t rush in, either, “Come a little closer so you can make out the details. It’s exquisite leather-work.”

Shifting into a defensive stance, Liadrin simply waited. Valeera exhaled, shifting her right foot forward. In two steps she was airborne, flipping over Liadrin and landing lightly behind her. Her blades were blocked as Liadrin swiveled around and brought her shield up and Valeera dropped low, kicking Liadrin behind the knee and then seeing stars.

Staggering back from Liadrin’s shield blow, Valeera ducked a slash from her sword, weaving to the side to avoid that shield again and then parrying another strike. Vibrations rattled her bones and she backflipped out of reach and slid to a stop just inside the edge of the ring. Valeera laughed, and darted forward again.

Golden light erupted under Valeera and she sidestepped out of the way and slipped into shadow. Appearing behind Liadrin, Valeera brought her daggers down, only for Liadrin to spin around and grab her wrists.

Light erupted again, this time in Valeera’s vision, as Liadrin headbutted her and then kicked her in the chest. Valeera skidded in the sand, and then felt a heavy weight. Liadrin held her sword at Valeera’s throat and pressed her foot into her chest.

“Yield.”

“Uh.” For a brief moment, Valeera forgot how to speak Thalassian, or indeed _any_ coherent language. Finally, she spat out some blood, held up her hands in surrender and declared, “I know I told you I’d let you win, but I changed my mind.”

Liadrin narrowed her eyes, and the break in her concentration was all Valeera needed. She twisted out from underneath her, spun and kicked her legs up and wrapped them around Liadrin’s torso. With a shout, Valeera pulled hard and slammed Liadrin down and pinned her to the ground. She leaned forward, nose touching the tip of Liadrin’s. “Yield?”

Panting, Liadrin stared up at her and sighed. “I yield.”

Valeera let go of Liadrin’s wrists and straightened, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “Next time we’re sparring unarmed, you hit like a sack of bricks with that shield.”

Sliding her hands idly up the supple leather of Valeera’s leggings, Liadrin asked. “So what prize will you extract from me?”

“Later,” Valeera promised, hesitating as Liadrin’s hands edged up to her hips. Slowly, she extracted herself from the paladin and helped her to her feet, trying very hard to ignore the frustrated look on Liadrin’s face and wondering who had _really_ won this match.

****

**********

Sunlight filtered through the canopy above, shining intricate patterns onto the marble floor. A parallel series of columns, three on each side, flanked the floor, holding up maps between one, with fittings for coverings should the weather turn inclement.

Tyrande traced her fingers along the boundary marking where Gilneas began and Kaldrassil ended. She traced the coast of the Eastern Kingdoms, and then the boundaries of Lordaeron and Silvermoon. Borders, she knew, could change and shift at a moment’s notice and in the fifteen years of the Compact they’d been redrawn several times already. How many more times would borders expand and contract over the lifespan of King Wrynn?

“High Priestess?”

“Yes, Alyssa?” Tyrande turned away from the maps. Alyssa Moonsong was a young priestess who had excelled in her studies, and in recent years had become one of her most trusted attendants. Sometimes, she reminded her of Shandris in the days before they’d lost everything; and on more than a few occasions she’d tried to leave those two alone...

“There is—”

A sound like the rustling of leaves drew her attention to one of the columns behind her, her ears twitching in that direction even before she turned. Tyrande studied her ex-husband as Malfurion stepped onto the marble. He looked healthy, his shoulders light and gaze without pain or sorrow, and Tyrande felt a pang of relief and joy at that. 

“You have a visitor,” Alyssa sighed.

“It’s hard to keep a Stormrage waiting,” Tyrande said and nodded to Alyssa. “You may leave us. I can handle it from here.”

“Of course, Lady.” Alyssa bowed her head and then walked away.

Tyrande strode up to Malfurion, putting her hand on his forearm and squeezing it. “It’s been years. I thought you were ... busy.”

“I have been,” he replied. There was a smile on his face, and he’d even taken the time to trim the wild bush that was usually his beard. “Azeroth’s wounds will take decades more healing, but the worst of it is over.” 

“A long, uninterrupted peace has probably helped matters,” Tyrande agreed. She was glad to see him, more than she’d thought possible. Maybe she still loved him, a little, even if it could never be the way it had been before.

Malfurion’s sharp eyes fell on the maps. “There are other wounds that may never heal.”

“I once thought that was the case with the Shal’dorei,” Tyrande reminded him. “And now we are closer than ever. Even relations with the other elvish kingdoms have been better, at least as far as I think they ever will be.”

“And the Horde?”

Tyrande’s eyes grew darker. “As you say, some wounds may never fully heal. But the alternative was destroying us all.”

There were times when Tyrande would smell ash on the wind and the memories of the day Teldrassil burned threatened to consume her, the old thirst for vengeance burning in her blood. Her people had sacrificed their _right_ to that vengeance, for the peace, for the compact.

But that did not mean she was alone in still feeling that rage on occasion. That anger at the unfairness of it all. “It has been good for our people to mingle with more than just the Alliance.”

Malfurion simply nodded once, not remarking on Tyrande’s expression. “I have a meeting with the new Archdruid tomorrow, so I will be in … town … for a few days.”

Tyrande smiled as the shadow within passed. “Thalyssra and I have dinner planned tonight, if you’d join us.”

“I would be honored,” Malfurion replied, the split second of hesitation only obvious to one who had once known him well.

****

**********

Anduin stood under a tree, looking out over a stretch of green grassland that led to the sea. While it was technically outside the city bounds, most people referred to it as Stormwind Park, and as he watched a multicultural gaggle of children tackle a Kaldorei rogue to the ground, Anduin was glad he’d authorized the land purchase.

“So it’s in the public trust?” Baine asked, peering carefully along the string that ran from his large hands up to the kite a hundred feet in the air. 

“Yes. I admit I stole the idea from you.” Anduin grinned, turning his attention from the laughing pile of children and back to the Tauren Chieftain. 

“Having safe places for our citizens to go, without fear of beast or monster…” Baine shook his head. “I don’t think you’ll guess who gave me the idea.”

“Jaina?”

“No.”

“...Not _Sylvanas_.” Anduin stared, features etched in shock.

“There was an incident in the Barrens, a family barely escaping a pack of lions. I was discussing it with the Warchief and she suggested clearing the land. Her exact words were ‘Stormwind used to have a park, did it not?’ And now we’ve come full circle.”

Anduin’s eyes fell on the Kaldorei and the children she was playing with. “As an interesting bit of trivia, there used to be a tavern in the park district called the Full Circle. It was destroyed by deathwing along with the rest of the district. Yukale talked about it a few times.”

“So, full circle in more ways than one.” Baine lost his grip on the string and let out a cry of dismay as the wind took his kite away towards the ocean.

Anduin patted his arm. “I’ll get you another one, my friend.”

Baine sighed, face widening with a smile. “What a sight we must be.”

“The King of Stormwind and Chieftain of Thunder Bluff flying a kite?”

“You mean the King of Stormwind _bullying_ the Chieftain into flying a kite!”

“That is the sort of faction conflict I can live with.” Anduin tugged on Baine’s arm, dragging him towards the children. “Come, let’s rescue my champion.”

“We should do a tug of war,” Baine mused. “All of you against _me_.”

“You’re on.” 

****

**********

After a two out of three (in which he was sure Baine had _let_ them win the second match), Anduin excused himself to return to the keep. Evening had fallen, and he enjoyed this time of night, when the candles magically lit themselves. He walked down a hallway filled with portraits of the previous kings of his line.

Anduin was the fifth leader of Stormwind in the fifty years since the opening of the Dark Portal (if one counted Fordragon and Lothar), and his reign was already nearly as long as his grandfather’s had been. Yet in that time, he had seen his kingdom and the Alliance as a whole through two of the greatest conflicts the world had ever seen and a number of others since.

What would either of them think of the world today, Anduin wondered, and not for the first time. He stopped in front of a statue of Llane Wrynn, the man who’d fought the Horde in the First War. The man who’d been slain by a Horde assassin. Would he look upon this peace as a positive, or would he lament the weakness of Anduin and the Alliance? There was no way to ask him, and Anduin was unrepentant besides. The old guard were either dead or dying, and would hopefully take their hatreds with them. 

He started again down the hallway, hearing a faint echo in his steps. Immediately on guard, Anduin changed his pace, and the echo shifted to match. Not wanting to give away that he’d noticed, he continued to walk down the hallway, though now with a destination in mind. At this time of evening there would be a patrol one hallway over, though now that he thought about it none of the usual guards were posted.

As the footsteps got closer, Anduin called to the light. He turned, a hammer forming in his grip, but he brought his swing up short as he recognized the dark face before him. 

“_Wrathion?_”

The dragon prince’s teeth glinted in the flickering candlelight. “My old friend. I’m so very happy to see you survived your righteous war. Love the beard, by the by.”

Anduin exhaled slowly, the hammer of light coming apart like so many fireflies. Wrathion was every bit as darkly handsome as the last time they’d met. “What are you doing here, and where are my guards.”

“They’re resting,” Wrathion assured him. He offered his arm to Anduin. “Now, where can we speak privately?”

“Just because we had a connection—” Anduin began, but Wrathion clucked his tongue.

“A _connection_ he calls it.” Wrathion took Anduin’s arm, “My dear king, I come to you in your time of need.”

Yanking his arm away, Anduin stared Wrathion down. “It’s been almost twenty years since I last saw you. The Legion came, the Horde and Alliance nearly tore the world apart. We killed the last Old God, and Azshara still lurks in the deeps. We had our time of need again and again and you were _nowhere_ to be found.” His voice lowered, shoulders squared, every inch the King and not the Prince Wrathion had known. “I didn’t need you then, and I don’t need you now.”

Wrathion looked hurt, pressing his hand to his chest. “You’re right, Anduin. You didn’t need me. Not against the Legion, and not against the Horde. But I was _right_. The Horde and Alliance no longer _exist_, in the way they once had. You are now one.”

“And yet here you are, with grim tidings I presume?”

Smiling, Wrathion stepped around Anduin in a slow, deliberate circle. “Grim tidings indeed. Something in the shadows right under your noses, and unfinished business you really shouldn’t ignore. And then…”

The candles guttered out, throwing the hallway into darkness. When they sputtered back to life, Wrathion was gone.

Anduin rubbed his temple, his other hand clenched into a fist. Wrathion was even more cryptic then he remembered, and whatever game he was playing Anduin wanted no part of. But the Legion had come, as Wrathion had predicted, and Anduin would be a fool to ignore his warning.

Running feet interrupted his thoughts. A human woman rushed down the hallway, skidding to a stop in front of him. A champion, but a young one. The old guard changing indeed. “What is it?”

She pushed thick blonde hair out of her face and held out a missive. “Message from Kul Tiras, your majesty.”

Taking the message and breaking the seal, Anduin skimmed over the message. He felt his heart fall into his stomach. “Please bring this to King Greymane.”

“Right away.” The girl nodded, and dashed off down the hall.

Anduin watched her go, the message playing in his mind amongst the echoes of Wrathion’s words.

_Lord Admiral Katherine Proudmoore passed away this evening._


	3. Legacy

As always, Jaina felt warm and welcomed in Minuial’s home. A fire crackled in the hearth as the priestess poured their afternoon tea, and Jaina took the opportunity to look around. Minuial had a habit of changing some of the decor every week and Jaina suspected it was just to see if she ever noticed anything different.

The one thing that _never_ changed was the shield that hung off of the west wall. Split nearly in half and charred by magical lightning, Galnir’s shield was a stark reminder of the cost of war. Jaina turned back to Minuial and picked up her tea. Minuial had never taken another mate, and if she’d had lovers in the intervening years she’d kept that to herself.

Jaina never pried. “That axe in the corner. Present for Alami?”

Minuial smiled. “Yes. She’s receiving her first posting today and I had it commissioned as a gift for her.”

“You must be proud.”

“I am. And a little nervous that she’s following in her father’s footsteps.” Minuial wrapped her hands around her cup, eyes falling on the shield. “I always knew this day would come but that has done little to prepare me.”

“How has Khalmir been adjusting to life in Dalaran?” Minuial’s son had shown an early affinity for magic, and while Jaina had helped when she could, there was only so much she could do and still keep up her duties to the Horde. But with her recommendation, Dalaran had welcomed him.

“He said he was a little airsick the first few days, but has adjusted since.” Minuial’s golden eyes glinted. “None of his teachers are as good as you are, of course, and his natural talent has some of the other students jealous. I told him to not let it go to his head, but.. he is _also_ his father’s son.”

“And yours,” Jaina pointed out playfully. 

“I admit to my ego,” Minuial said, preening, and Jaina laughed.

The front door banged open, letting in a tall, imposing figure. There was no mistaking who Alami’s parents were, not with her bulky build, green-tinged skin and long, pointed ears. Jaina could see Galnir in her eyes and the shape of her nose, Minuial in the smile on her lips and her sharp cheekbones. “Alami!”

“Auntie,” Alami said, beaming at Jaina and her mother. 

Minuial set her cup down, seeming to fight the urge to get up and go to her. “How did it go?”

Jaina wondered how that might feel, seeing your child grown and ready to go out into the world and struggling with the idea that maybe you weren’t needed. Anduin was probably the closest to that for her, since her daughters-by-marriage had already been adults. 

Alami closed the door, setting her gear down next to it and strode through the room to kneel next to her mother. “They want me on patrol in Stranglethorn.”

“It’s a good posting, just exciting enough.” Jaina said. “Congratulations!”

“Rokk got sent to Northrend.” From the tone of Alami’s voice, Jaina knew she was disappointed.

It took her a moment to place the name; once, there’d been a child who’d snuck past a number of guards and nearly absconded with a sack of apples. Jaina had kept tabs ever since, scrubbing Rokk’s deadname from all records. “I’m sure you’ll get sent up to join her eventually, it’s a common rotation.”

“Yeah, but who’ll keep an eye on her?”

Minuial put her hand on Alami’s face. “She’s capable of taking care of herself, Alami. And usually she was the one keeping an eye on _you_.”

“Just serve with honor and you’ll do fine.” While Jaina could pull strings, she knew Alami would be angry with her for it. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t have someone let her and Minuial know how she was doing; Jaina was invested in the girl and this new generation of future champions.

Alami’s crestfallen expression was quickly replaced by one of determination. Her parents were champions of the Horde and her father was a martyr and national hero. It was a lot to live up to, Jaina knew, but she was certain Alami could do it. “Minuial, didn’t you have something for her?”

“That I did.” Minuial moved with elegant grace across the room, and picked up the axe. As she brought it over, Jaina got a better look.

The handle was made out of some kind of wood that Jaina didn’t recognize, but looked sturdy and strong. The blade itself was in a typical horde design of polished steel and etched with both elvish and orcish script. From what Jaina could read, there were spells of warding and what was basically a prayer for protection.

Minuial held the axe out and Alami wrapped her hand around the handle, before lifting it into the air and staring at it in awe. “I won’t let you down, not with a weapon such as this.”

Trailing her finger along one of the runes, Minuial said quietly. “Rokk’s mother crafted it, using steel from your father’s sword. I etched the script myself.”

There was truly no better gift for a family such as this, but Jaina joined them, holding her hands over the blade until it gained a soft, reddish glow. Alami had a heart of fire, and it was only fitting that her axe reflected that.

“My enemies will cower before me. For my father. For the _Horde_.” Alami declared, her eyes shining from unshed tears. 

Jaina glanced at Minuial, seeing the answering tears in her eyes and the utterly heart-wrenching pride on her face. She put one hand on each of their shoulders. “Let me treat you both to dinner for a proper send off.”

****

**********

Dalaran was bustling today, the streets almost overflowing with people and vendors. Liadrin couldn’t remember what holiday it was actually supposed to be, and she was pretty sure there wasn’t _actually_ a holiday, just some excuse for people to buy and sell.

The crush of people made her feel a little claustrophobic and she pushed through the crowd and finally escaped into the Legerdemain Lounge. There were less people here than Liadrin had expected and she was happy enough about that; there were maybe a dozen people inside, most of them at the bar. She settled into a table in one corner, pulling her gauntlets off and keeping one eye on the exits as she ordered a drink. A gnome sat at the end of the bar with an espresso nearly as large as she was. The gnome glanced at her, the smile on her face reflected in unusual golden eyes.

Liadrin felt a shift in the air, as though it suddenly became chilled. A few moments later a familiar figure slipped into the lounge, her shadow before her almost like a living thing. Liadrin blinked, and Alleria spotted her. The coldness retreated and the shadows returned to normal as the Void Elf pulled over a chair. 

“So what holiday is this again?” She asked, leaning her elbows on the table.

“It’s a Goblin holiday to celebrate the end of Gallywix’s rule,” the waiter said, putting a drink down for Liadrin and then taking Alleria’s order. “Everyone buys everyone else presents, and Dalaran has become a hotspot for the best gifts.”

“Reminds me of a few other holidays,” Liadrin remarked, reaching for her drink and wishing she’d ordered something warm instead of iced. But she always felt that way around Alleria, the Light reacting to the darkness.

“I knew I should have bought you something.” Alleria leaned back again, studying Liadrin with eyes of swirling shadow. It had been so long since Liadrin had seen the natural blue that she couldn’t remember when Alleria’s eyes had changed. Had it been after Nazjatar or before?

Somehow, the effect made her tattoos stand out more, and not for the first time Liadrin wanted to reach out and trace them. Politeness and uncertainty, as always, stopped her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were stalking me.”

Smiling, Alleria replied. “And if I was?”

“Then you’re paying for my drink.” Liadrin toasted her, and took a long sip as Alleria laughed.

“I _was_ actually looking for you. I was hoping to borrow you for a mission.”

Liadrin peered at Alleria, and then set her drink down as she straightened, all business. “What kind of mission?”

Alleria shook her head, getting to her feet and plucking her drink out of the waiter’s hand just as he arrived. She glanced towards the stairs, then jerked her head before she put some coin on the table and started for the stairs. Liadrin followed, her own drink in hand. Alleria passed two rooms and then entered the third, shutting the door behind Liadrin. 

“You realize I’m a paladin and subterfuge isn’t exactly in my wheelhouse,” Liadrin said. “If you were trying to get me alone, you could have just asked.”

“I wasn’t -- really?” Alleria stared at her, then shook her head. “I just don’t want to discuss this where others might overhear. It’s too sensitive.”

Liadrin just smiled, pulling out a chair with her foot and sitting in it. “I take it you’ve already done the subterfuge part, and you need someone to ride in and finish the job.”

“More or less,” Alleria admitted, pulling a chair over and sitting in front of Liadrin.

Again, something inside her recoiled from the shadow and Liadrin fought back the need to lash out at it. Alleria’s eyes were depthless pools, easy to fall into and drown within and Liadrin felt pulled in two directions, feeling as though light were leaking from the pores of her skin in response. She clamped down on her emotions and held her cup tightly in her lap. “So where are we going and why not send a champion?”

“The Swamp of Sorrows, for starters,” Alleria explained, pulling a scroll out of her armor and unrolling it onto a little end table to reveal a map. “I’ve already got two in the area but....” She tapped her finger near the coast. “They reported Naga activity here. It seems like they’re looking for something, and any time the Naga are looking for something it’s never a good thing for the rest of us.”

“So two champions and the two of us to eliminate a Naga dig site and find and secure whatever artifact they’re hunting?” Liadrin asked, pulling the map closer. “And what’s this marking here?”

“Sanguinar volunteered herself as well, but yes.” Alleria leaned in and Liadrin had the bizarre thought that she smelled like winter rain. “One of the champions reported a village there.”

“Not naga?”

“No, but the missive was brief and she’s monitoring the situation. I told her not to get too close.”

Liadrin peered at the little marking, her hand brushing against Alleria’s. The contact, though brief, burned like ice and she yanked her hand away with a hiss of pain.

Alleria frowned, the briefest glint of sadness in her eyes as she rubbed the side of her hand. “It would be best to ride in through the mountains to the North and meet up with the champions before proceeding further.”

“I agree,” Liadrin murmured, distracted by cold fire. She inhaled deeply, and looked at Alleria again. “I see no reason to delay. The more time we give the Naga the more likely they are to find whatever they’re looking for first.”

“We’re on the right continent at least,” Alleria remarked. “I’ve got a mage waiting who can portal us closer; she owes me a favor after I helped her with her latest paper, but we’ll be on our own after that.”

Liadrin stood, pulling her gauntlets back on before taking the map and rolling it back up. “I’ll need an hour to make a few arrangements and pack a few supplies for the journey. Where do you want to meet?”

“Meet me out in front of the Citadel.” Alleria said. “That’ll give me a chance to find a cat sitter.”

****

**********

Voidwalker, as Sylvanas liked to call Alleria’s cat (since it was a much better name than ‘Midnight’), lounged in Jaina’s throne while his father maintained one of his usual places on Sylvanas’s shoulder. Absently, she reached up to stroke Varian’s chin as the Troll in front of her droned on and on about pork futures.

Where _was_ her wife, anyway? She should have finished her tea by now. 

This was the sort of thing Sylvanas had come to rely on Jaina for, the boring, mundane parts of ruling that the mage thrived upon. It was always endearing to watch her approach some problem from an unexpected angle and offer a solution or at least an idea for the petitioner to think about.

But now he was going on about food prices, but Sylvanas missed if he meant the price of pork after the pig was slaughtered or the price of the feed he used for the pigs, and she was too proud to ask him to clarify.

And then the man’s wife -- no, daughter -- came in carrying a small, squirming animal under her arm, and set it down in front of Sylvanas. The sight of a piglet cowering next to the steps snapped Sylvanas out of her thoughts and she barked, “What is _this_?”

Varian climbed down from her shoulder to the armrest, then jumped to the floor and padded over to the piglet, sniffing it carefully. Sylvanas locked eyes with the troll, staring at him expectantly. 

“Itsa gift, Warchief,” he stammered, nervously. “We uh, my sow had too big a litter den we can care for, and I thought dat ‘maybe de Warchief would appreciate a little piglet, since she got dem cats an’ all.’”

Sylvanas suddenly remembered what a migraine felt like, and was about to demand the elite guards remove Troll, daughter and pig from the Hold when she noticed the way Varian had curled around the little creature, protecting and comforting it.

_Damn_ it. Sylvanas gritted her teeth. “Since it seems that Varian has _adopted_ the creature, I accept your _gift_. Now begone before I change my mind.”

She waited for the Trolls to flee before she sagged back into the throne and waved her hand. “Tyra.”

“Yeah Lady?” Her champion materialized from the shadows on her right, leaning on the throne and peering at the Warchief.

Sylvanas waved her hand again, this time in the direction of the piglet. “_Do_ something about that.”

“Bit small ta eat, if yeh don’ mind me sayin’.”

“No, no, it’s bad form to eat a well intentioned gift. At least not until it’s put on some pounds. Just find a place for it.” But then she had an idea and it was a brilliant idea that took care of several things all at once. Sylvanas straightened and used her most commanding voice.. “Tyra, since you have performed admirably in your duties of late, consider it a gift, from myself, to you and Kalira.”

“Really?” Tyra beamed at her, then knelt and picked up the piglet, hugging it to her chest as Varian nuzzled at the creature and licked it’s head. “I promise I’ll take t’best care of it! An’ no worries, Varian can visit any time since he really seems t’like him.”

Satisfied with her plan, Sylvanas suggested, “Go ahead and take care of him now. I’ll dismiss you from your duties for the rest of the day.”

“Aye, mu -- Warchief!” Tyra saluted with her free hand as she straightened, before marching proudly out of the hold. 

“That thing is going to be bigger than her in just a few months,” Sylvanas said, grateful that it wouldn’t be her problem to deal with now. She turned to one of her stewards. “Is there anything else on the docket?”

Making note of the demand in her tone that _there be nothing else on the docket_, he turned even greener than normal and shook his head. “No, Warchief, that was the last of it.”

“Then you are dismissed as well.” Sylvanas pushed herself to her feet, scooping Voidwalker up into her arms and waiting for Varian to climb back up to her shoulder, before she started walking. Even if she hadn’t known where Minuial’s home was, Sylvanas could have found Jaina easily enough, as she always knew instinctively where her wife was as long as they were in the same city.

She hadn’t gone more than a few feet away from the hold when a figure ghosted up besides her. Kalira grabbed her mother’s arm, her grip too tight, her face more pale than usual. 

“What is it?” Sylvanas asked, at once curious and just a tiny bit concerned by the tightness of her daughter’s lips.

“I’ve got news from Kul Tiras.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, was at the urgent care for a sinus-infection-that-turned-out-to-be-a-tooth-infection


	4. Old Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day early this week on account of Halloween and Blizzcon! 
> 
> Be interesting to see how much of what I've plotted/written for HoD they'll do something like ;)

Katherine Proudmoore was dead.

Jaina stood in her bedroom, not really seeing herself in the mirror as she turned that fact over and over and over again in her head. Her mother was dead. She was _gone_ and Jaina wondered if she’d said the right things last time they’d spoken. If her mother had believed her when she’d said she’d forgiven her. There was a strange gulf inside Jaina’s heart, different from the unfinished business she’d had with her father. It was a different sort of feeling; Jaina hadn’t been ready to let go of her mother and there were things that she’d left unsaid, foolishly expecting to be able to say them some day.

She hadn’t been ready. How many more people would Jaina have to grieve before it was time?

The grey gloves she wore were too stifling, too warm, but it would be cooler in Kul Tiras and chillier still at sea. Jaina knew without asking that her mother would prefer a watery grave to the family tomb. Katherine would at last reunited with her husband, leaving Kul Tiras to her son. Jaina had abdicated that right fifteen years ago, at least in theory as she knew Kul Tiras would follow her into battle if she ever needed it to.

A warm, familiar form rubbed at her ankles, then hopped up onto the dresser. 

With her mother gone, Jaina knew that a will and her own wishes were something that she would have to reflect on sooner or later. 

Tired eyes stared back at her from the mirror, and she felt every one of her fifty-three years, no matter that she barely looked a day over thirty-five. And as she absently stroked Varian it hit her suddenly, a dawning realization that she would most likely see the rest of her family and many of her friends buried long before she died. While the magic in her veins wouldn’t extend her life to the thousand years of a Guardian of Tirisfal such as Aegwynn, she could live well into her second century.

Not for the first time, nor would it be the last, Jaina _missed_ the former Guardian and her advice. She wondered how she’d handled watching the people she cared for die, one after another, for decades and centuries on end. Was the exchange worth it, to continue to do good for the world? Would Jaina, in a century and a half, _crave_ the release of death?

Jaina stepped away from the mirror, hands shaking, ignoring Varian’s plaintive mewl. She could of course ask Sylvanas what it felt like, but mortality was not a subject that her wife handled all that well. It was simply one of those topics they both tended to avoid; though with a funeral and the related state functions to follow Jaina thought that they wouldn’t be able to avoid that talk for all that much longer.

A soft red glow drew Jaina’s attention to her dresser. Jaina ran her fingers over the stone, then picked it up and flipped it back and forth in her hand. The familiar runes lit her face with the color of blood.

Jaina lifted the stone to eye level, inspecting it, mouthing the runes that she knew so well. Her mother had one of these. Had insisted upon it, loudly and repeatedly until Jaina had made one for her herself. As if Jaina had ever thought her mother would carry a blue stone or leave home without one at all.

Yet … It was just a funeral, and carrying it right now felt like an unnecessary weight on her heart. Jaina stared at it a moment longer before tilting her hand. The stone slid off her palm, dropping back onto the dresser where it thudded like a heavy anchor, before she grabbed her staff and stepped out of the bedroom.

Sylvanas waited for her in the hallway, expression inscrutable. Jaina willed herself to remain composed, to remain calm, but the moment she was close enough for Sylvanas’s comforting scent to fill her nostrils she slid her arms around her wife and rested her head on her shoulder. As always, the coolness of Sylvanas’s skin was soothing, a balm on all her wounds.

Saying nothing, Sylvanas rubbed her hand in a slow circle on Jaina’s back. Of course, of _course_, Sylvanas understood. She’d lost her mother too and so many others besides.

“Wield your grief like a weapon,” Sylvanas said, voice barely above a whisper.

“And if I’d rather wear it like a cloak?”

“Then I’ll allow no one to question you on it.”

****

**********

“I think,” Liadrin declared, slashing aside a tangle of vines as her boot filled with rancid water. “I’d rather be in Northrend. Or the Burning Steppes. Or _Uldum_.”

Alleria peered down at her from her perch up in a tree, a cheeky smile on her face. “Is it my fault your armor is too heavy to be up here?”

Liadrin rolled her eyes. “I’m only complaining because it amuses you.”

“Sure you are.” Alleria bounced to another tree, crouching on a branch and peering to the east. Her hand went to her bow, and she slowly drew it, signaling Liadrin.

Drawing her sword, Liadrin surged through the murky water, beneath Alleria’s tree, and right into a Naga camp. Alleria held her fire, watching the Lady moved through the Naga in a deadly dance, smashing her shield into scaly flesh and severing limbs with brutal accuracy.

Lowering her bow, Alleria moved to another tree, scouting for any who might try to flank Liadrin, or signs of what the Naga had been looking for. They’d lost their horses a few days ago and had yet to make contact with either Sanguinar or the champion who was tracking the Naga patrols.

It made Alleria uneasy. Too many unanswered questions, too much going wrong already.

She hazarded a glance into the camp in time to see Liadrin end the last of the Naga. Dropping down to the swamp below, she joined the paladin. “No flankers, and no one managed to escape you. Lets search the camp and then find a place to rest.” Alleria flashed a smile. “And let you empty out your boots.”

“Still no sign of Valeera?” Liadrin asked, picking through some waterlogged documents. “And that champion of yours?”

“Neither of them were at the prearranged meeting place,” Alleria reminded her. “And the only things passing through this part of the swamp besides crocolisks and Naga was that party of Broken.”

Scanning one of the documents, Liadrin remarked, “If I recall, they had no new information for us either. Certainly nothing about new artifacts.”

She waved the scroll. “But I think we’ve finally got a lead.”

“If you say the temple…”

“Well, the last dozen or so expeditions must have missed something.” 

Alleria caught the scroll when Liadrin threw it at her, and unrolled it. “...their scouts reported two figures entering the Temple of Atawhatever just yesterday.” Sighing heavily, she dropped the scroll into the water.

“After you,” Liadrin offered, gesturing to the expanse of swamp between them and the sunken temple.They could go around a little bit and Alleria could keep to the trees, but they would lose several hours in the process.

“Try not to enjoy this too much,” Alleria said, wading out into the water. Almost immediately it became a slog, and she felt something squish between her toes inside her boot. She hoped to the gods that everyone else was having a much better day than they were. 

“Should’ve… tapped a Shaman.”

“Do you have any theories about what this thing is?” Liadrin waded into step beside her.

“Nothing as powerful as the Tidestone,” Alleria surmised, glad for the distraction. “But there are enough Naga in this swamp to tell us it’s important enough to Azshara to be a little less than discreet in the search. Maybe it’s got power, or maybe it’s something of religious or sentimental significance.”

“Or all of the above.” 

“With Azshara those things are all often entwined, aren’t they.”

Liadrin shook her head. “I’m not exactly the expert.”

“If we can find that champion maybe she’ll have some answers.” Or at least they could find some answers within the temple. Alleria had just hoped they wouldn’t have to go inside it. The place gave her the creeps, and the closer they got, the worse the feeling. 

“There’s something nearby that’s setting my teeth on edge,” Liadrin said. The top of the temple was visible now, like a shadow in the fog. “How do we get inside?”

Alleria steeled herself, letting her own shadows ripple over her like armor. “We swim.”

Liadrin looked down at her heavy plate, then back to the temple before fishing around in her pouch. She came up with a vial filled with a greyish substance. “And to think I almost decided not to pick up some water breathing potions. I’d have had to strip down just to make it in there alive.”

“And then you’d be useless, but at least the view would be nice.” Alleria rolled her shoulder, and then dove.

****

******

The sound of cannons still rang in Sylvanas’s ears as the ship pulled into port, the echoes of song hanging in the air long after Jaina’s voice had gone silent. The fleet had come home to say goodbye to the Lord Admiral, and were now scattering to the wind again. Sylvanas paid it little heed for the moment; she had little birds to fill her in on the movements later.

It was a strange ritual, to bury someone at sea. Far beneath the surface, where the sun did not reach and creatures more terrible and strange than Naga swam, Proudmoore was at rest. 

Decay was the natural order of things, but there was something different, and a little unnerving, about the decay of water. It brought to mind bloated bodies and fish nibbling at tender flesh. At least in a grave a body decomposed as it should, by insect and worm and things invisible to the naked eye.

Sylvanas enjoyed all things death, even if she thought mourning itself was a waste of time and energy. The living indulged in it and Sylvanas was interested in the ways they moved on. The ways that people mourned, the rituals and pageantry that accompanied honoring those who had passed were fascinating to her. Alliance races in particular loved the show. The wailing and the gnashing, the song and military pomp. Horde funerals in comparison were simpler; song yes, but the pyre and drinking and stories of valor. The Zandalari though, now _those_ were a people that took the ritual of death to shining standards of gold and jewels.

The color of mourning in Kul Tiras was much more subdued, and more to Sylvanas’s tastes.

Her eyes fell to where Jaina stood on deck, wearing a robe of silver and grey. Her hair had been braided and set into a crown upon her head. She looked ghostly with her pale skin and white hair and silver cloth. Only the sapphire of her eyes stood out, a sharp contrast of color against the drab mourning clothes. It was a hauntingly beautiful sight, though one Sylvanas would prefer to see on rare occasion.

Sailors secured the moorings as the ship came to a gentle stop. Jaina waited for others to disembark before starting down the gangplank herself. Sylvanas held out her hand to stop Tyra from following. “Let her have a little space. Kalira’s eyes are enough, here.”

She’d decided that she wouldn’t let Jaina linger _too_ long in her mourning. There was risk that she might wallow in it, but she wouldn’t force her to stop until she was ready. 

Tyra nodded reluctantly, moving as soon as Sylvanas dropped her hand. Her Champion took her duties seriously, and none more so than ensuring the safety of her mothers-in-law. Sylvanas appreciated the loyalty; for a time it had been in short supply and even now an incessant nagging voice in her mind reminded her that betrayal could come from anywhere.

Stepping into the city shortly after Tyra, Sylvanas strode just fast enough to keep Jaina in sight but not so closely as to crowd her. Displaying her affection in public was always a power play, whether she intended it as such or not, and this was neither the time nor the place for it. She cared enough about Jaina to give her the space she needed, even if she’d only ever admit that to the cat.

Sylvanas passed a stall selling mourning tokens. It seemed a little tacky to Sylvanas, to take advantage of this situation to turn a profit, but something in particular caught her eye.

Stepping past a gnome whose eyes glinted gold, Sylvanas pointed to a black ribbon with a silver inlaid Proudmoore family crest. “I’ll have one of those.”

The balding vendor nodded his head as Sylvanas dropped a pouch filled with coin into his hand. He started to count out Sylvanas’s change, but she’d already turned away to catch up to her wife. 

There was a small crowd around Jaina as she walked through the city, and Sylvanas could sense that Tyra was feeling antsy. But there was nothing for it; Kul Tiras mourned too, and shared in their grief with one of their daughters. By Sylvanas’s observations, the people seemed to be buoying Jaina. 

Despite that, irritation flashed through Sylvanas. How many times had this nation turned its back on Jaina? So quick to anger, and just as quick to forgive, a facet that applied to her mother as well. Katherine Proudmoore was more popular in death than she had been in life the past decade. 

Her attempt to break the Compact and the resulting consequences had very nearly brought Kul Tiras to its knees, and her reign along with it. Only the sheer stubborn strength of her will had kept her in power, and even Sylvanas had seen signs of how weakened it had become. 

Perhaps Tandred Proudmoore and his husband would have better luck in guiding Kul Tiras into the future his sister had built. Sylvanas considered that it might be worth maintaining a relationship of some sort with her brother-in-law. He was probably a little easier to deal with than his mother, at any rate, and he’d never expressed his distaste for her to her face. A small point in his favor.

Sylvanas studied the ribbon in her hand, rubbing her thumb across the silver crest. It was a _gesture_, nothing more, but it was easy enough to give Jaina gestures these days and actually mean it. Once upon a time, those gestures had been as calculated as her thoughts on Tandred, but this had come naturally; she’d barely thought about it beyond wanting to do something for Jaina in her time of need.

If that made her weak, so be it; Only Jaina would know anyway and as Sylvanas lifted her head to look at her wife, she knew it was worth it.

A man near a stall flagged Jaina down, and Jaina greeted him as warmly as she could under the circumstances. Sylvanas couldn’t quite recall his name, but she knew his face as someone Jaina considered a family friend. A survivor from the fleet of Daelin Proudmoore since long before First Theramore, his merchant vessel made semi-regular trading stops in Orgrimmar even during the years of harsh tariffs; enough that Sylvanas recognized him idly, though she didn’t bother trying to place a name. It was enough to know he was now one of the last links Jaina had to her father. 

Sylvanas would save her opinion on _that_ for a later date. She would happily speak ill of the dead, but only when _appropriate_.

The presence of someone who was clearly a friend did cause some of the well-meaning citizens to disperse and give them slightly more privacy, so for now Sylvanas was grateful to the man. He led Jaina over to a stall selling those disgusting sausages Jaina was so fond it. It was unlikely that her wife had an appetite today, but perhaps it might lift her mood a little bit to share a moment with someone who’d been close to both mother and daughter. 

Tyra relaxed, which made Sylvanas relax. She placed her hand on her Champion’s shoulder. Leaning in, she whispered, “I want you to talk to the Lord Admiral’s lady friend, that doctor.”

“Aye?”

“One can never be too paranoid,” Sylvanas said.

They moved closer to the cart, the vendor lifting up the side to allow Jaina to get a closer look at his wares. The massive Kul Tiran uncle reached across Jaina’s back to rest a deceptively gentle hand on her shoulder, right arm lifting as if to point to something. If there was anything there to see, his mountainous body was blocking it from view.... 

The scene locked into place in Sylvanas’s mind, a scene she could very well have plotted out herself. That soft but well-placed grip on Jaina’s off arm. The angle his body formed with the cart, blocking out casual eyes. The wall formed by that helpfully raised menu board, conveniently placed such that it cut off vision from the most likely sniper position. Her gut twisted up, ears pinning back, and she said Tyra’s name, the two syllables a command even as she started to surge forward herself.

It came too late.

Someone in the crowd screamed as Jaina stumbled back into view, staff clattering on the ground, hands grasping her throat as she stared wide-eyed at her friend and the knife in his hands, the cobblestones red with blood. 

“For _Daelin_!” the man shouted.

Sylvanas shrieked, her cry blowing the crowd apart as she flew towards Jaina, black liquid oozing at the corners of her eyes. With a single strike of her fingers she severed the assailant’s head from his shoulders, and then caught Jaina as she fell.

Blood poured from a clean cut across Jaina’s neck and her bright eyes had dimmed to a dull shade the color of tarnished steel. A roaring sounded in Sylvanas’s ears as her vision narrowed like she was entering a long, dark tunnel; until all she could see was that last faint gleam of life in Jaina’s eyes. 

And then even that was snuffed out.


	5. Where Do We Go From Here?

_Mage! Orgrimmar! Now!_

Jaina heard birds calling from somewhere far away as she floated serenely. The sky above was clear and blue, wisps of marshmallow clouds moving on a stiff breeze. The water was warm, but comfortable, reminding her of a tropical swim. 

A seal breached the surface nearby, peering at her for a moment before diving. Jaina spun around slowly, turning her head as the shore came into view. She could see figures there, familiar ones; family and friends, some she’d lost long ago and others much more recently. Tears pricked at her eyes and a choked sob escaped her.

Pained waded into the water. It was interesting that even here, where one could look however they chose, Pained had kept the scars on her face. For some reason, that made Jaina feel better; like it was an anchor point, something she could ground herself in.

_This will change everything._

“I’m not just mostly dead this time, am I,”Jaina stated, as the seal’s head popped up again and gazed at her with familiar eyes. Kiska somehow managed to smile even in that form.

Pained had almost reached her and if Jaina hadn’t been so exhausted she’d have objected to the idea that she might be lifted up by anyone but Sylvanas (and even Sylvanas was pushing it). 

She looked past Pained, to her mother, her father; and she wasn’t ready. It was too soon. Panic gripped her, like ice freezing solid her heart. Before Jaina was a kind of peace she’d earned a hundred times over, had yearned for; but behind her had been a new life she’d built, a happiness that she had tried so hard to not take for granted.

Katherine’s eyes widened.

_I will not lose her. Not like this!_

Hands grasped at the back of Jaina’s robe, dessicated arms wrapping around her and then she was pulled under water. The sunlight filtering in through the surface rapidly gave way to darkness, the warmth turning to a bone deep chill.

Air bubbled out of her mouth as the hands let her go and she drifted, suspended in nothing but cold, endless night. And then she could feel nothing, hear nothing, see nothing. Whether she hung there for a thousand years or the space of a breath she couldn’t say. There was the sensation of hands on her again, voices whispering unintelligible words in her ears. And then the hands tore at her, trying to pull her in one direction or another like some cosmic tug of war. She was dragged towards shadow, and then pulled towards a different sort of darkness. Above her a light broke through, and she reached for it, fingers brushing a hand only for it to be pulled out of reach. The tug of war resumed, between darkness and shadow, sharp tendrils latching into her soul and yanking and ripping and trying to break her free.

_She might never forgive you._

Years ago, Jaina had been trapped in a different kind of hell, a worse one, where she relived all her mistakes over and over again. Here, at least, she was not faced with those visions. In comparison, shadow and darkness just couldn’t compete with the torment of her own mind.

_So be it._

It was the darkness that won, though as it enveloped her she thought she saw something gazing at her from deep within the shadow.

A scream ripped from Jaina’s throat and and her muscles spasmed, jerking and contracting involuntarily. Strong hands held her down, and then one pressed against her cheek. Someone else was looking at her and...

Jaina opened her eyes to see Sylvanas’s face, emotion writ across her features like an open book. Pushing herself up, she found Kalira and Tyra staring, wide-eyed; and on the ground next to the slab Jaina had been laying on was a crumbled valkyr. As she watched, the creature turned to silver mist and faded away.

“Jaina?” Sylvanas asked, turning her by the chin. 

It was a strange thing, the hollow silence in her chest, the missing heartbeat and empty lungs. And yet she felt a thrum that was at once new and familiar. It reminded her of the energy of Sylvanas’s unlife.

Oh.

Slipping off the slab, Jaina brushed past Sylvanas, ignoring her name as she strode to Tyra and pulled the sword from its scabbard. It was a simple, well polished claymore with the Forsaken sigil on the pommel. 

The Champion cringed, but Jaina only lifted it, staring at the face reflected in the steel.

Her skin was pale, a blue so white it was practically ice, and her eyes glowed with the same frosty color as the element she was so attuned to. Even Jaina’s hair had shifted to a silvery blue, and a thin, white line scarred her throat.

The sword fell from her hand, clattering on the ground as she whirled on Sylvanas. “What did you _do?!_”

“You did not have your stone,” Sylvanas replied, tightly.

“Would it have made a difference if--” Jaina waved her hand, then lifted it to her head, knowing it didn’t really matter and that she didn’t really want to know. “What happened?” 

Even as she asked the question, the answers surfaced. The way she’d been baited, a family friend who’d wanted to share in her grief, and then he’d…

Jaina touched her throat. Oh _gods_.

“He was a supporter of your father’s,” Sylvanas stepped closer. She still held herself cautiously outside of Jaina’s space, even as her fingers twitched with the clear desire to be closer. Well, Sylvanas could _deal_ with it. Jaina had just been murdered and lacked the energy to contain her irritation.

“Really? _Really_?” Jaina threw up her other hand. “After everything I’ve been through it’s some thirty year old vendetta over my fucking _father_ that kills me?!”

Sylvanas rested a hand on Jaina’s arm. “There is some irony in that.”

Jaina yanked her arm away. “Don’t touch me.” Her eyes darted around until she found the door, and then she started for it. “I need some air.”

“Technically--” Tyra started, before a look from Sylvanas silenced her.

“It could have been a Sin’dorei assassin who lost a loved one in the Purge,” Jaina muttered, yanking the door open. “I’d have respected that. Or someone sent by Azshara. Some Worgen noble I insulted by accident once. A Sylvanas fangirl trying to get into my wife’s knickers. But _no,_ an old family friend in front of a food vendor who’d never let go of Daelin Fucking Proudmoore.”__

_ _Jaina stalked down the stone hallway, sensing Sylvanas not far behind her. “I _said_ I need _air_.”_ _

_ _Grasping her arm, Sylvanas drew her to a stop. “I know you do, but we need to talk first.”_ _

_ _“I _saw_ them, Sylvanas,” Jaina said, voice breaking as a thousand pieces of broken glass pumped through her heart. “I saw them, and then they were taken away from me.”_ _

_ _She pressed her hand against her chest, wondering why she had the misfortune to be one of the ones that could still _feel_. How was that at all fair? And yet…_ _

_ _She stared into Sylvanas’s eyes, blue on red, and tried to remember the way she’d felt about her, just a few hours ago._ _

_ _“You need time to adjust.” Sylvanas lifted her hands to Jaina’s face. “But I couldn’t lose you, Jaina. We’ve had too few years together.”_ _

_ _Sylvanas’s emotion washed over Jaina, stronger than she’d ever seen. “I don’t want to _look_ at you right now. Do you understand? I wasn’t prepared for this, I wasn’t _ready!_” To die, to have the world look at her the same way so many still viewed Sylvanas. Mentally exhausted and in pain, she drew her weakest argument first, like a fool._ _

_ _“Gods only know the damage this will do to the Compact.”_ _

_ _“_Damn_ the Compact,” Sylvanas hissed. “I would tear it up and set it aflame a thousand times for you!”_ _

_ _“There are many things you’d burn,” Jaina agreed, calling up a portal. “That’s your thing, isn’t it.”_ _

_ _“Jaina--” _ _

_ _But then she was gone._ _

_ __ _

**********

The world had been lesser without Jaina in it, and that feeling remained lodged in her heart as her wife teleported away.

Sylvanas opened her mouth, for there were words that Sylvanas had not said in so long that she’d all but forgotten they’d existed. Words that some part of her felt she needed to say, but even now she could do no more than think them. For speaking them aloud might just ruin her. 

Even thinking them, that faint _I love you_ echoing in her mind, was almost too much.

There was no one near enough to hear anyway, and she was glad for that. It was a weakness and one of the people who deserved those words the most had just left.

Rather than return to the ritual chamber and face either of her daughters, Sylvanas stalked down the tunnel and then up the elevator to the Hold proper. But it was not empty, much to her disgust. 

In the center of the throne room stood Thalyssra, Baine and Harleen.

None of them said a word as she walked past and took a seat on her throne. While she wanted to be alone, while she needed some air herself, she had to put her mask on. Always with her mask, save when she and Jaina were alone.

Sylvanas tilted her head, leaning on the arm rest to study them before she gestured. “Say your piece.”

“Where’s Jaina?” Baine asked, before the others had a chance to speak.

“She needed air.” Sylvanas ignored Thalyssra’s snort, and headed off the inevitable line of questioning. “She has had something of a difficult afternoon.”

“How did our spies not catch wind of this?”

Sylvanas shook her head. “Loyalists to her father? I didn’t think any of them were still alive. Let alone one that was positioned as the friendly Uncle. The one time I ignore my paranoia...”

“...She really left her stone at home?” Harleen inquired. “Heard there’s some witnesses saying she was searched, but, yanno, convenient rumors sure are a thing, Warchief, no offense.”

“Yes.”

“Welp. Good enough for me!” 

“I’m ever so glad to have at least your support in this, Trade Princess.” To Sylvanas’s own surprise, there was some sincerity behind the sarcasm. She lifted her eyes to Baine. “She was rarely without it, and never deliberately. I’d grown used to its presence. That she chose not to carry it after her mother’s death was notable. It might have meant nothing; no one expected an assassination in the center of Boralus in broad daylight. It might have meant everything. She was denied the opportunity to discuss it. I chose to err on the side of preserving her existence. You would rather see her buried, Baine?”

Baine stared at her a moment, as if trying to process what she was saying. All this time and Sylvanas’s people were still ostracized, even among those who were closest to them, who were supposed to be friends and allies. Sylvanas felt a small pang in her chest.

“I only hope you’re understanding of her feelings on this,” Baine said finally. “And that they are likely to be complicated at the least. It may take some time before things return to normal between you.”

“Bigger concern is gonna be everyone else,” Harleen chimed in. “Betcha Ol’ Greymane is already screamin’ for your head an’ my sources have been tellin’ me ‘bout some rumblin’ among the Kaldorei even before this.”

Sylvanas lifted her eyebrow as she addressed Thalyssra instead of Harleen, “Oh really? Rumblings among the Kaldorei?”

“Yep,” Harleen continued. “Been keepin’ an ear to the ground in the EeKay, for new trade opportunities, an’ Whisperwind has been pretty open to some discussion since we’ve got such a high satisfaction rate among our workers. Who knew payin’ people what they’re worth paid off, right?”

“Indeed.” Sylvanas’s eyes remained locked on Thalyssra’s. “I want you to continue those overtures, but in the meantime, I need to speak with the First Arcanist. Alone.”

“I would like to speak to you as well,” Baine said. “I’ll come by later tonight.”

“Very well.”

Once it was just her and Thalyssra, Sylvanas rose from her throne. She was feeling much too out of sorts to have to deal with the First Arcanist and her erstwhile love doll today, so she didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Out with it.”

“There are many things I regret, Sylvanas. Time and again I’ve turned a blind eye to your antics, because in the end my people were protected.” Thalyssra stood ramrod straight, looking down at Sylvanas in that way that was always so infuriating about the Nightborne.

“And what, keeping my wife with me is the bridge too far?” 

“What benefit does this bring to the Horde? To my people?” Thalyssra swept her arms out. “Instead of letting her be mourned, all you’ve done is upset everyone who cares about her. Who knows what cracks might develop out of this?”

“Spare me.” Sylvanas stalked towards her, eyes flashing. “You stayed with the Horde when Teldrassil burned. You stayed through every atrocity we committed in the War against the Alliance. You stayed for the Compact, too. Your buyer’s remorse is a long time coming and _now_ you’ve finally found your excuse, haven’t you.”

“Leaving her stone and carrying the blue one are not the same _thing_ and you know it. Just as you know that not everyone will agree with you on it. _Jaina_ may not even agree with you on it.”

“Gods forbid people be happy their loved one was still around.” Whether it was the jab about Jaina, or the fact that Thalyssra was right, it was still a punch to Sylvanas’s chest. But she stopped in front of her, and said, “The lion’s hands are as dirty as anyone’s.”

Thalyssra smiled. “Assuming I’ll go sniveling to the Alliance? No, _Warchief_. The Shal’dorei needed you when we first stepped back into the world, but we’re strong enough to stand on our own two feet now.”

“Do not be so sure of that.” Sylvanas stepped back, turning towards the throne. “The world is a much different place than it was when we defeated the Burning Legion.”

“On that we agree.”

****

**********

An overcast sky greeted Jaina as she stood on a wind-ravaged cliff, the sea churning far below and rain beating into the rocks around her. Everything was grey, which suited her just fine. Jaina lifted her hands, flexing her fingers as she examined her icy complexion. Then she screamed, flinging fire and ice down into the ocean and then frostfire for good measure.

Jaina summoned up her power, digging into depths she had never known she had, and the sea responded, rising high above her. It froze, and she shattered it, a thousand thousand lances, razor sharp and deadly spearing into the cliff around her. 

Her mother was _dead_ and now she would never see her again. Not in this world, or the next. Not her mother, nor her father for all that was worth. Not Pained or _Kinndy_, or any of the other faces she’d looked forward to greeting as she’d drifted in that peaceful sea.

The ocean before her was a reflection of her rage and grief, and she called it up again and again, making spells up on the fly and barely feeling a dent in the level of her power.

Had she been simply inhibited by being alive, or had this grown with age and she hadn’t the need to tap it since the battle on Nazjatar? 

Did it really _matter_ now?

Jaina fell to her knees and the storm seemed to subside, the sea calming though the sun still stubbornly refused to come out and give her its warmth. Was that a feeling she’d ever experience again? Sylvanas had always been so cold, and Jaina could not tell if she was chilled because of her state or because of the storm.

And then the sea started to churn again, and a figure rose, suspended on a still wave of water. Jaina climbed to her feet as Queen Azshara studied her with a wide smile that was as treacherous as the deeps. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh sweet nectar, I am here because you _called_ to me.” One of Azshara’s tendrils stroked at Jaina’s cheek. “And you are _finally_ ready for our chat.”

Jaina batted it away. “I did no such thing.”

“Power calls to power,” Azshara reminded her. “The sea is angry. She stirs as you stir, she rages as you rage. And so I came because that song was as sweet as my name.”

The wave lowered some, and Azshara leaned her elbows on the cliff’s edge, propping her chin on her hands. “No heartbeat. No breath. And yet you are as alive as the storm you called.” She crooked the finger of one hand, the picture of calm serenity. “I cannot return your life to you, but I can show you _fathomless_ wonders. What do you say? _Allow_ me to help you show that false Queen the error of her ways, _my_ lady.”

It was like being looked upon by a shark, despite Azshara’s fair face and the faux kindness there. Jaina drew herself up, as imperious as the Queen before her. “You’ve been waiting eagerly for me ever since we defeated N’zoth. Desperation isn’t a good look.”

The serenity was replaced by absolute fury as Azshara rose to her full height, the action punctuated by a flash of lightning behind her and the rolling thunder that followed. She lashed out with her magic so quickly a lesser mage would have been reduced to arcane ash, but Jaina deflected the spell with a casual, backhanded blast.

Energy crawled along Jaina’s skin, crackling as she drew on her power, on her rage and bitter disappointment. “I leveled your city once. Do you ever wonder what would have happened if I had directed that all into you, instead?” Jaina raised her hands. “I’ve had a really _bad_ day.” An eerie echo crept into her voice as her eyes glowed like sapphire suns. “So do you still want to _test_ me, bitch?!” 

Answering magic flickered and sparked in Azshara’s hand, but Jaina’s words seemed to give her pause. 

“...Mmm. Such disrespect must be punished, you understand...but your queen is merciful.” Her hand flicked, the magic dispelling harmlessly into the sky above them in a brilliant display of violet lightning. “I shall make allowance for your…_stressful_ circumstances. Give my words thought, _my_ beautiful sorceress. There is no need to answer just yet.”

Azshara dared, again, to touch her, and Jaina clutched tightly at the tentacle. “Touch me again and you’ll find out what fried calamari tastes like.”

Snatching her limb away, Azshara laughed, the sound like a siren’s call. She sank away from the cliff on her wave, and was gone with barely a ripple. Somewhere far, far away, Jaina thought she could hear singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise update! Also we're moving to Wednesdays and weekly for the time being!


	6. Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a bit of a goof when I was blocking out these chapters and the last and there's a scene in here that takes place during chapter 4. Hopefully it's not too jarring.

**Kul Tiras**

Blood dribbled from the man’s nose, trailing over his lips, down his chin and then dripping onto his bare chest. He breathed shallowly, staring at Valeera defiantly.

Scoffing, Valeera punched him in the throat, sending him careening backwards against the wall. She drew one of her blades and stalked towards him. “I was hoping you’d put up more of a fight.”

The man spit on the ground, lifting his fists. “I’m not gonna talk and nothing you can do will change that, lass.”

Something shuffled in the shadows and Valeera smiled lightly. She believed him. He wouldn’t talk and it would be a waste of effort to try. But there were other ways to get information, and her smile grew wider. “You don’t need to _talk_, Perkins. You’ve already told us _everything_ we need to know.”

His eyes darted to the shadows, then back to the Blood Elf. Perkins swallowed, his voice wavering. “What?”

“It’s amazing what you can learn from a man’s body language,” Valeera continued, taking a step closer and spinning her blade in her hands, just maybe enjoying a little too much the way he twitched when she did so. “Or from his handwriting when he’s stupid enough to keep a journal where unscrupulous persons can find it.”

A worn, leather-bound book spun out of the shadows and Valeera caught it with her free hand. Valeera had suspected there were hidden pawns on the board for some time, that this mess went beyond just Kul Tiran loyalists. Pawns that were too close to the kings; and if her hunch was right, Perkins’ journal would be a goldmine of information. 

Valeera was close enough to smell his breath, her eyes boring into his with an intensity that would make most men quake.

And Perkins was most men. “You’re not going to interrogate me?”

Valeera’s wrist flicked out, her dagger carving a new smile in the man’s throat and side stepping the blood spray in the same smooth movement. Perkins spasmed back, hitting the wall as his blood stained the stone street.

She didn’t bother looking at him, nor the figure in the shadows. With a deep sense of satisfaction, Valeera said, “That was the last one involved with Jaina’s death.”

The shadows shifted and Valeera continued, “But there’s more to it and this journal will prove it. In the meantime, I need you to keep up your work, stay close to the bishops hiding in the shadows. We can’t afford for them to suspect which side you’re actually on until it’s too late for them.”

A question hung in the air as Valeera flipped open the journal. As she’d hoped, there were names, dates, and descriptions. Valeera bit the inside of her cheek when she recognized someone else’s handwriting and just how far this went. “I suspect you’ll know when the right time to strike is, and I’ll trust your judgement on the targets.”

There was a grunting assent and then the shadows were empty again. Valeera paged through the book for another minute, then snapped it shut. For a moment, the book trembled with her hand, then she slipped it into her pack, leaving the the man’s body where it lay as she too melted into the darkness.

****

*****five months ago*****

Except for the sound of water dripping in the distance, the flicker of the torch in Liadrin’s hand and the sound of her armor, there was only silence in the temple. She moved carefully, cautiously, ears straining for potential attack.

The only sign that others had ever passed this way were the bones. _So_ many bones littered the ancient stone halls. Trolls, dragons and dragonkin had once inhabited this temple, only to have been cleared out decades ago by adventurers and glory seekers. As she passed the skull of a dragonkin, a snake slithered out through the large eyehole and darted into the darkness.

Liadrin wondered if any of those erstwhile heroes had realized they were saving the world in the process of looting everything in sight. She stopped when she heard a sound in the distance, like metal striking stone. When the sound repeated, she glanced at Alleria. “Someone is digging.”

“Either the Naga, or our people. I’m hoping the latter, ” Alleria agreed. She brushed past Liadrin, the proximity sending a chill down the paladin’s spine and yet conversely making her want to draw closer, like a moth to a shadowy flame. 

She shook the feeling off and followed, drawing her sword as they walked down the confusing hallway. There were so many twists and turns, and the sound of the pickaxe echoed off the stone in such a way that Liadrin had the very real fear they’d get lost. “Is this what claustrophobia feels like?”

Alleria leaned in, whispering back. “Like the tunnel is closing in and the air is thick and stiff and your pulse is racing?”

“Something like that.” 

At the end of it was a large chamber, and within the chamber was the evidence of a pitched battle. Naga bodies lay strewn on top of the bones of the previous dead. Some of their wounds were smoking, others appeared to have been carved up by a very skilled butcher. 

In the far northeastern corner, a blonde Draenei woman swung a pickaxe into a rapidly growing hole in the stone wall, humming a jaunty tune in time to her swings. She wore a sheer, golden gown, translucent in all the places that best showed off glimmering gold tattoos on her thighs, hips, stomach and back. She was easy on the eyes after slogging through muck for weeks, and Liadrin had to remind herself not to stare.

“Woo!” The Draenei slammed the pickaxe into the crack one last time and the entire section of wall crumbled, kicking up dust that made her cough. She whirled, hair flipping around like a golden curtain. “Lady Valeera! I am findings it!”

Valeera appeared from an antechamber, skin darkened by more than just dust. She flicked her dagger then wiped it on a Naga’s cloth tunic. “Good. I wasn’t having much luck down there, but Azshara won’t be learning what happened to her people for a good long while.”

“I see we missed the fight,” Alleria said, folding her arms and studying the two women. Sometimes, Liadrin had observed, she tended to flinch away from the Lightforged and similar beings, but was holding up well in this Draenei’s presence.

Liadrin frowned, keeping in step with Alleria as they approached the assassin and the champion. “And what exactly have you found?”

The Draenei beamed at them, stepping aside and casting a light spell to illuminate the dark space behind the wall. “An artifacts that is being very old and _very_ powerful.”

Liadrin stepped closer as a chilly sensation rippled across her skin. She was halted by Valeera’s hand on her arm. 

“There’s something about this that’s giving me bad vibes,” Valeera explained.

Valeera was right. It was cold and Liadrin shuddered, imagining that this must be what the endless emptiness between the stars felt like. “The Light recoils from it. It’s like the shadow. The Void. Or maybe … There’s something different about this. It feels like death.”

“Yes yes,” the champion agreed. “And I am really thinkings you in particular should not be touchings it.”

Then she reached in and pulled out a long, thin rod, a light shade of blue and delicately engraved with runes that seemed to fluctuate and flow. 

Liadrin expected some kind of violent reaction when the Lightforged touched it and she herself took a step back as it felt like she’d been slapped. But the champion held it out to Alleria as though it had no effect on her.

Liadrin had more questions than answers as Alleria took the rod. “It feels like cold fire even from here, how is that not harming you?”

“I’ll explain later,” Valeera said, and the Draenei winked.

****

*****Five Months and a Few Hours Ago*****

Thalyssra trailed long, elegant fingers down Tyrande’s bare back, a smile dancing across her face as Tyrande sighed and shifted under the touch. She stroked the muscles, pressing her finger firmly into them to draw out a low groan.

She leaned down, kissing the right shoulder blade, her hand moving down Tyrande’s hard back and then passing over the burn scar that ran from her hip to the small of her back. Before she could let herself fall into a mental loop of guilt and what-ifs, Thalyssra dragged her lips to the scar and kissed there, wondering what might have happened if she’d left the Horde all those years ago, the day Teldrassil had burned, and knowing that in good conscience she _should_ have. But her word had been her bond.

Tyrande shifted again, her groan a little louder. Thalyssra’s grin grew as she slid her hands down to Tyrande’s ass, teasing lightly at the curved area of skin where legs and butt met. Now this was a much better train of thought...

“Just where do you think you are going with those teeth of yours?”

In answer, Thalyssra nipped at one cheek, eliciting another low hum from her lover, trailing her hand to Tyrande’s thigh and then between her legs as she took a longer, harder bite.

“I am sorry to interrupt your meditation,” a deadpan voice said. The tone shifted slightly, emotion bleeding through. “But something terrible has happened.”

Sitting up with a frustrated sigh, Thalyssra shot Alyssa a look. “Acolyte, someone had _better_ be dead.”

Tyrande climbed gracefully out of bed, her sharp eyes reading Alyssa’s expression before widening. “...Who?”

The four syllables of Jaina Proudmoore’s name rang through Thalyssra’s head, freezing her blood and making Tyrande’s bedchamber spin around her. She tried to imagine how Sylvanas was reacting, tried to imagine how the world was going to change, the healed fractures that would reopen and the new ones that might spread from this single incident like a cracking mirror.

“She was assassinated in Kul Tiras,” Alyssa continued, taking a half step towards them before stopping herself. “The Warchief immediately portaled back to Orgrimmar with her body.”

“How long ago was this?” Tyrande asked, but only after a long shared glance with Thalyssra.

“An hour ago, maybe a little more. Our sources are very quick.”

Thalyssra looked at Tyrande again, remembering a conversation she’d once had with the Warchief, and how adrift she still sometimes felt. Ignoring the rushing in her ears, she asked, eyes still on Tyrande, “And your inevitable sources in Orgrimmar?”

“Proudmoore has already been raised,” Alyssa answered immediately. “I can’t tell you if she had her stone on her, or not. But if you pardon my saying so, did anyone ever really think Windrunner would do anything different?”

Tyrande was already halfway through retrieving her discarded clothing. “I need a portal to Stormwind.”

Nodding numbly, Thalyssra dressed as well. “I’ll send you, then take one to Orgrimmar. We’ll meet in Suramar tomorrow morning.”

“Agreed.”

Alyssa looked between them, fidgeting from one foot to the other as she absently worried at the sleeve of her robes. “Does this change your plans, my ladies?”

“It may have moved them from daydream to reality,” Tyrande replied grimly. “But I will see how our young King handles this, and act accordingly.”

Saying nothing, and understanding the trajectories that had been set in motion years ago, Thalyssra opened her portals. 

****

**********

Her name was Tyra Cole. She was a hero of Azeroth and the Horde and Champion of the Banshee Queen. And yet she felt inadequate, her chest illusionary tight, a pressure in her skull she couldn’t explain.

Jaina wasn’t just her mother-in-law, or one of her leaders. She was her _friend_. And the silence that rolled off of her as she stood stiffly on the plateau overlooking Orgrimmar was enough to make Tyra’s heart hurt.

She’d always been the emotional sort.

Quietly, but not silently, Tyra approached Jaina, coming to a stop at her left. She clasped her hands behind her back, following Jaina’s gaze to the city below. It was a busy day; merchants packed the streets for upcoming festivals, citizens of every race on Azeroth pushing through the crowds. Even from here Tyra could recognize a few of her new cohorts; not a difficult task, as there were only a few dozen new Forsaken a year so she knew their faces, names and occupations by heart.

Tyra had just honestly never expected Jaina to be one of them and was just as certain _Jaina_ had never expected it.

“Are you okay?” Jaina asked, turning freezing blue eyes onto Tyra.

That was probably the most unnerving thing, Jaina’s eyes. They brought to mind Northrend and Arthas. Tyra knew she wouldn’t be the only one to make that jump, even if she refused to believe Jaina could ever be anything like him. “I failed ya.”

She looked at her fully, meeting Jaina’s eyes with the sorrowful red sparks of her own. “I shoulda been closer. I shoulda realized somethin’ was wrong sooner.”

“I should have had my stone on me but here we are,” Jaina remarked bitterly, folding her arms across her chest. She’d changed into a red and gold silk robe that hung from her pale frame like a frozen waterfall.

Tyra thought it was really stunning, but that it was also poor form to lust after her wife’s parents. “Guess we’ve gotta lot to regret. But I’m still sorry I failed, Lady.”

Jaina dropped her hands to her sides, then reached over and put one arm around Tyra. Tyra tried to remember her first few days, after Sylvanas had freed her. There’d been only guilt and anger at first. A numbness that had permeated down to her bones. 

She leaned into the grip, just a smidge, and added, “It’s gonna be real hard at first. But you’ll adjust. Hopefully faster’n me.”

“What, you weren’t always Sylvanas’s favorite?”

Tyra threw her head back and cackled. “Gods no! I hated it, Lady.” She tilted her head, looking at Jaina. “Some of us, we adjust right away. But I hated it. Not our Queen, but… I hated meself. What I was. I thought I’d lost everything but I just hadn’t realized I’d found somethin’ else. Zanda, first, but then… Kalira, you.” 

She pointed down into the city. “All o’that, this peace ya built.”

Jaina closed her eyes, the faint energy leaking like crystalline tears from the corners. “I don’t know what I’m feeling, Tyra. I haven’t felt this angry and lost since … since _Theramore_. And you know what pisses me off the most?”

“Aye?”

“I’m so _angry_,” Jaina said, voice tight and strained, the air growing cold around them. “And I can’t even blame anyone but _myself_. For trusting an old family friend, for deciding ‘hey let’s leave the stone behind today, what could possibly happen?’”

Tyra snorted. “Yeh know damn well that fate likes t’fuck with us like that.”

A smile ghosted across Jaina’s face. “I guess I was kind of waving a giant red flag in front of a raging bull.”

Stepping in front of Jaina, Tyra took her hands and squeezed them. “Look, Jaina. We’ve been gettin’ a lotta experience with helpin’ new Forsaken these last few years, aye? Let your family help. Let us help.”

Jaina frowned, staring at her, then past her to Orgrimmar. Her focus returned to Tyra and her expression thawed slightly. 

Taking that as a good sign, Tyra wrapped her arms around her in a fiercely tight hug. Jaina returned the gesture hesitantly, and with much less enthusiasm.

Tyra tried not to read too much into that.


	7. Covenant of the Skies

There was no way to satisfy everyone, no decision or stance that Anduin could take that would have widespread support among his peers. He’d heard from several of them, usually repeatedly, some louder than others, and as he leaned back in his throne and listened to a debate between Genn and Velen he already knew what he would have to do.

Anduin lifted his hand. “Enough. What’s done is done, and nothing we do or say will change that. What happened was an internal Horde matter.”

“Jaina--”

He cut Genn off. “Jaina is a member of the Horde. And while the circumstances were less than ideal, even she admits that the decision was justifiable.”

“So do you intend to say nothing at all?” Tyrande’s voice interrupted them as the High Priestess strode into the throne room. Her eyes locked onto Anduin’s and Anduin knew that his day was only bound to get worse.

“No, I’ll have a statement. But I’m not going to condemn Sylvanas for something we’ve all mostly accepted by now.” His eyes flitted to Genn, then back to Tyrande. “Or do you deny that the existence of the DNR stones has been a net benefit to both sides? It’s satisfied the Warchief’s desire to see her people expanded, without grave-robbing or desecrations. Or that there are now members of the Alliance, of your own _people,_ who are Forsaken? That system only functions if the deceased’s wishes are respected...regardless of what they choose.”

It had been that realization that had tempered his shock and grief the most; that as High King he spoke not just for the living, but the risen dead, and a number of individuals from non-alliance races who lived and worked within Alliance territories.

The Compact, after all, had been more than just a peace treaty. It had been the first step to a legitimate coalition between the Alliance and Horde, and on many occasions Anduin had considered what a formal union between the two might look like.

It had survived worse than Sylvanas raising her wife.

“I deny none of _that_,” Tyrande replied. Her stance was tense, though her face was inscrutable. The darkness of her eyes drew him in like a moonless night. She withdrew her own stone, the red glow of the runes turning her face into a blood moon. “There has been much weighing on my mind these past years. For three decades my people have seen more change and suffering than we have in the previous three hundred. Or three _thousand_. But without the Alliance, we would have been annihilated. By the Legion. The Horde. Or something else entirely.”

The stone slipped back into her pouch. Her eyes fell onto each of the leaders in turn before resting once again on Anduin. “And for that, I am forever grateful.” 

Anduin opened his mouth to say something, say anything to stop what he knew in his heart was coming, but no words came. Tyrande held up her hand anyway. “What Windrunner has done this time plays little more into my decision than to solidify it as the right thing to do for the Kaldorei. And I knew you would not condemn it, which simply makes it easier.”

“High Priestess,” Genn said, almost slack-jawed as he stared at Tyrande. “Surely you don’t intend to leave the Alliance?”

“I intend exactly that, my friend.” She favored him with a smile even as all Anduin could hear was rushing in his ears. “I would prefer to remain on good terms, as friends and partners, and I would not deny any Kaldorei who wished to remain with the Alliance.”

“You would lose the protection of the Alliance armies and navies,” Genn pointed out. “Even if your borders remain open for trade.”

“They will.”

Genn fell silent, and Anduin wondered what he was thinking.

“And what of the Shal’dorei?” Velen asked, his head tilted as he stared shrewdly at Tyrande.

Tyrande seemed to expect that question, and her smile reminded Anduin of a nightsaber on the prowl. “I have already negotiated an alliance with Suramar, to help heal a rift ten thousand years old.”

Anduin stood from the throne. What he should do, as High King, was fight to keep the Night Elves within the Alliance. To do otherwise would be to show weakness, to show the other members of the Alliance that he didn’t value them, when the truth was entirely the opposite. But if he fought too hard, it might make the other factions feel as though they might be forced to remain members. While in some ways he despised that the High King role even existed, he had to acknowledge that it did help prevent some of the infighting that had categorized the older forms of the alliance.

Moving down the steps until he stood in front of Tyrande, he looked up at her. “I could waste all our time, start an argument, dig into the minutia of Alliance treaties, but I won’t. At the core of the Alliance is the tenet that this _is_ an Alliance. That while we are stronger when we stand together, no member is _permanently_ bound to remain. In fact, the Alliance has lost and gained members constantly over the centuries. It is in that spirit that I make this offer, High Priestess.”

She tilted her head, waiting.

“Do what you think is best for your people, as always, but consider a formal compact with the Alliance _and_ the Horde, so that we might all remain friends.”

Tyrande did not hesitate, holding her hand out in the human fashion. Anduin grasped her in a firm wrist clasp, wondering at what cracks might spiderweb from this decision and knowing in hindsight that even if it hadn’t been today, this would have happened sooner or later.

He stepped back, watching Tyrande depart, her shoulders set back and her back straight. Genn watched her go as well, seeming grayer, older and more frail than Anduin had ever seen him. His face was drawn, as if all the years had caught up to him.

“Genn?” He asked.

“I… have a lot to think about.”

And then Genn was gone, leaving Anduin wondering if where the Kaldorei went the Worgen might follow. Slowly, he turned to look at the others. Velen was inscrutable and Anduin didn’t want to think about what the Draenei might do. As much as Genn and Velen had been mentors to him, their people were so _close_ to the Night Elves. Tyrande and Malfurion had brought both into the Alliance, positioned themselves as their closest allies.

“Ironforge stands with you, High King.” The young King Dagran Thaurissan regarded him from where he stood near the representatives from Gnomeregan and the Lightforged. His intelligent green eyes seemed to take in everything and the whiteness of his hair made him look older than his 24 years.

Anduin wondered if he’d ever been that young, even if he was barely ten years the Dwarf’s senior. “Thank you, Dagran.”

Alleria’s eyes remained transfixed down the hallway where Tyrande and Genn had gone, her face a carefully crafted mask.

Velen placed a hand on Anduin’s shoulder and squeezed.

It was a small comfort, but one Anduin took anyway. He looked at the others, each in turn, before speaking. “The Alliance as a whole will maintain good ties with the Kaldorei, but you are all welcome, and encouraged, to seek diplomatic ties of your own.”

They would get through this. They had to.

**********

“With the right magical attunement the crops will practically grow themselves overnight,” Valtrois said, leaning back in her seat, a glass of wine swirling in one hand and her legs crossed elegantly, one over the other. “There’s the matter of exploding cabbages but that’s what _iteration_ is for.”

The only thing that made today tolerable for Thalyssra was that it was not a day where Valtrois was offering her bedroom advice. It was usually _good_ advice, but that was beside the point. 

She rubbed two fingers against her temple. “And you just decided to get into agriculture because you were _bored?_”

“_Naturally._” Valtrois took a sip, eyeing Thalyssra over the glass as she did so. “I’d be a _lot_ less bored if you’d only consider--”

“Tyrande is not interested,” Thalyssra interjected. “No matter what you or Stellagosa might suggest to sweeten the offer.”

“You’ve become _such_ a prude.” Valtrois scoffed, setting her drink down on a table next to her chair. “The offer remains open.”

Thalyssra snorted, reaching for her own glass of wine to strengthen her resolve. Not just for Valtrois’s antics, but for the speech she was preparing to give in just a few hours.

She stared at the scroll floating in front of her, a quill moving across the page as she changed her mind on sentence structure and order. Thalyssra became lost in the work, forgetting anyone else was there as she tried to fashion the most perfect speech--

Valtrois touched her arm and she nearly jumped out of her skin. “So it’s true, then? We’re to leave the Horde?”

Breathing out a curse, Thalyssra nodded. “Yes.”

“And the rumors about allying ourselves with our kin?”

“If all goes well, all elves shall eventually be reunited under a single banner. The _Covenant of the Skies_.” Stars, sun and moon, night and day. Perhaps the one thing that tied them all together _was_ the sky and all that hung from it.

This time, Valtrois was the one taking a fortifying drink. Of _Thalyssra’s_ wine, she might add. “I’d say such a goal is impossible, but the Horde and Alliance are making kissy face together so what’s possible or not went out the window _years_ ago.”

“Your confidence is reassuring,” Thalyssra remarked. She reached out, rolling up the scroll; she had most of what she wanted to say memorized by now anyway. 

“Covenant of the Skies.” Valtrois tilted her head. “How _pretentious_, I love it. Your idea, or your paramour’s?”

“One of her acolytes suggested it. Alyssa Moonsong.” Another bottle of wine floated over and refilled their cups. “It really is _delightfully_ pretentious, isn’t it?”

“I’m surprised no one was petty enough to suggest the _Darnassian League_,” Valtrois said. “A rather _pointed_ thumbing of the nose at Sylvanas in particular.”

The tone of Valtrois’s voice gave Thalyssra pause. Her fellow mage had been quite vocal, if sarcastically so, during the early days of the Blood War and then steadfastly refused to speak to her until nearly a year after the signing of the compact. “I-”

“_Listen_. I’m _beyond_ delighted that it is you in particular who’s removed the stick that was lodged--”

“Valtrois.”

“--up Tyrande’s finely shaped ass, and it is about time we put those petty differences behind us.” Valtrois pressed her palm to her heart. “I’m with you in this. And while Stellagosa has to remain _officially_ neutral, she is pleased as well.”

“Where _is_ your mate, anyway?”

“Some errand up north,” Valtrois waved her hand dismissively. “As long as she brings me something fun to play with she can take all the time she needs.”

**********

Hell had always been a place of Jaina’s own making. There were days and weeks and months where all she had to do was close her eyes and she could see her mistakes and her hurts like the letters on the page of a book. The people she hadn’t saved, the ones she’d sentenced to death by her actions, the ghosts of her past that would forever haunt her.

There was a certain irony that she hadn’t been able to escape death. If she took a moment and really thought about it, it was that _fear_ of what awaited her that had stayed her hand in taking her stone.

There was equal irony in knowing what she’d seen in those seconds before she’d been torn back to the world. To know, to feel with absolute certainty that peace had awaited her, a peace that she would now never experience. Jaina was tired to her bones and it was a fatigue that would now be with her for as long as she existed.

Maybe that was why she was punishing herself by coming to Kul Tiras, to the place of her own murder. Jaina wanted, _needed_ to know how her homeland now looked at her.

She was a little disappointed that she wasn’t outright shunned. Some looked at her warily, a few with suspicion. No one really _welcomed_ her the way they might once have, though she still found it in herself to summon a playful water elemental, and it drew out a few children.

The piece of ice that had replaced her heart thawed, just a little.

Jaina found herself near the keep, and climbed the ramparts to look out towards the port. A half-dozen ships were docked or lay at anchor, including two Kul Tiran sloops, a Pandaran trading vessel and the gilded lines of a Zandalari cruiser.

Gods, once upon a time the sight of that Zandalari ship would have sent chills down her spine and alarms ringing throughout the city.

“Mother,” Kalira said, materializing on her left. Tyra had not accompanied them on this trip, her duties taking her to parts that Jaina didn’t give a damn about right now. 

She did not respond to her daughter, leaning on the stone, her eyes looking far out to sea.

Kalira put her hand on Jaina’s back, holding it there. It was another long moment before she spoke. “I don’t remember what it was I saw when I died. What I do remember is how it felt. The pain faded, the world became warm and calm, like being in the womb again. There was peace, and a sound like bells calling me home.”

The blue of Jaina’s eyes burned like cold fire as she swiveled her head and shoulders to stare at her.

“I was ripped away from that gentle embrace, lifted up into an existence I had neither asked for, nor wanted. I spent years wallowing in my own misery until I forgot what joy even felt like.”

“You’re telling me I should stop moping and get over it,” Jaina said icily. 

“No. All I’m saying is that I understand. Tyra too. But there’s joy to be found in this existence, if you’re willing to look for it.”

Jaina pushed away from the wall, walking back down the stairs and away from the keep. Kalira followed and Jaina didn’t try to lose her. Instead, she walked through the city, from neighborhood to neighborhood. She didn’t intend to go anywhere in particular, but she found herself slowing as she began to recognize where her feet had taken her.

All right, she thought. Maybe it was a good idea. She did try to make it a point to visit the old lady whenever she was in Boralus, after all; it would be rude not to. The thought almost made her smile.

A rippling snarl interrupted her thoughts as they passed a jeweler’s shop. Jaina jumped, and Kalira’s hand twitched toward her bow; but the jowly mastiff didn’t seem to be reacting to any threat. It had gone from sprawling in the sun outside its master’s door to giving low, booming barks at absolutely nothing, backing into the doorway as--

As the two Forsaken on the street came closer.

Jaina’s blood would have gone cold, if it wasn’t already. The jeweler rushed to pull his still-growling dog inside, stumbling over apologies, and she waved the man off with a sharp motion. No apparent threat, she thought bitterly. That was a good joke.

“It’s fine,” she said, voice hollow. “It’s only natural, after all.”

She hadn’t quite noticed it before, but she couldn’t help it now. She wasn’t certain whether yapping terriers in the windows were barking at _her,_ or because that was what terriers did; but she was certain the street cats of Boralus had never bolted or hissed at her with this kind of uniformity before. And she doubted the carthorses and courier ponies thronging the streets were being pulled to the side of the road and held well back until she and Kalira passed because all of Kul Tiras suddenly felt extremely polite. 

The tender part of her wanted to turn back, insisted there was no point in continuing just to hurt herself; but Jaina wasn’t in any state to listen to that part. Nothing more to lose, after all. What could one more rejection do, anyway? Kill her?

She let herself in by the rear gate of an old alehouse, managing not to step in anything as she let herself into the yard. It was hardly a sprawling estate; but that there was paddock space at all behind their stables spoke to the inn’s stature as a very old establishment, and the yard was well-kept and clean. Chickens and a goose picked their way freely in the thin grass, a pig dozed in a pen that was mostly mud but smelled clean, and a fine black stallion was enjoying his oats in the guest stables. Jaina, distracted by fiddling with the latch on the gate, didn’t realize she was being approached until big yellow teeth tugged firmly on her sleeve. . 

Jaina froze, turning to look into sunken dark eyes, ears as long as her forearm flicking forward in cheerful recognition. Always white-flecked with roaning, the fur around Millet’s muzzle and ears was much greyer than the last Jaina had seen her, and her back drooped in a gentle U. It reminded her a bit of Khadgar.

Millet huffed, nuzzling at her again, frustrated by the lack of an apple or another treat. But she didn’t flinch away from Jaina’s scent. It was as though she was still the woman who had cared for her when she'd been sick and then spoiled her rotten every time she saw her, much to a certain Troll’s displeasure.

Jaina swallowed, throat somehow still working through the psychological response, and ran a shaking hand down Millet’s neck. “H.. hey girl. Does Ihz know how bad your manners have gotten?”

Her friend would probably forgive her for the bad habits, all things considered. Jaina had bought Millet herself when Ihz, wringing her hands and swallowing thickly, had confessed the big draught mare was nearly past work. A kind word and a quick, painless death was the best thing a working supply-train handler could offer an elderly mule; but Jaina had slightly better means and access to the Proudmoore Keep stables. The innkeeper’s son had served under Tandred; he’d been more than happy to provide a quieter retirement home for an old friend, once he heard the Lord Admiral was looking.

It was hard not to love Millet, after all, Jaina thought through her daze as the old lady lipped at her ear.

It took a lot of training and time to get any animal used to the scent of the undead; for a prey creature it was twice as hard. Jaina had always known that Ihz put a great deal of effort into her counterconditioning. She’d understood, intellectually, that the vast majority of living animals feared the Forsaken by instinct, she’d just...never fully realized what that meant, in practice. But Millet pressed her big, blocky head into Jaina’s chest,and it was all Jaina could do to not bury her face into the fur that was still soft after all these years. If she’d been capable of crying she would have sobbed her feelings out.

She conjured a little treat, a sweet mana apple that nearly cost her a finger. Jaina had created that spell just for Millet, and she grinned for the first time since she’d learned of her mother’s death and smoothed a bit of fur on Millet’s nape.

“I guess it’s true; no matter how much things can change, others remain the same. Here I am, my life turned upside down, talking to a mule. Only we’re both different. Getting on in years.”

Unlike Jaina, Millet wasn’t frozen in time. Over twenty-five years as a working pack mule took their toll, even with Ihz’s careful attention. She couldn’t tell how many more years the elderly lady still had, but they were finite in number. For a brief, mad moment, Jaina wondered how Sylvanas would react if she asked her to raise a mule.

But she dismissed the idea out of hand. She couldn’t do that to her old friend, and Ihz would kill her if she tried it anyway.

Jaina gave in and pressed her face into Millet’s neck, holding that position for a long time, moving only to supply the mule with further mana apples. 

Movement made her lift her head. A girl approached, maybe eight or just a small for her age twelve, Jaina couldn’t really tell. Her voice sounded a little too rough as she asked, “Is Millet yours?”

“Me grandsire’s,” the girl said, her Kul Tiran accent thick. She climbed onto the fence on the opposite side of Millet’s head and sat on it, brushing her hand down the mule’s neck. “He bought her off a Troll a couple seasons ago. Can still pull a wagon or a light sleigh, but I think grandad jus’ likes havin’ her around.”

“She’s a friendly face,” Jaina agreed, conjuring another apple and tossing it over Millet’s head for the girl to give to her. “And a war veteran. Did you know that?”

The girl shook her head. Like Millet, Jaina’s state didn’t seem to bother her. 

“Yes. The Lady has seen many conflicts, and has been a dear friend to me for…” Longer than that girl had been alive, really. “A very long time.”

Jaina looked at her own hand, fingers like pale icicles against Millet’s fur. The mule turned her head, butting it against Jaina’s arm. Jaina found herself speaking before she could stop herself. “She’s saved my life a few times, including the day we met. Once, it was just after the Old God attack on Orgrimmar…”


	8. Ultimatum

Thalyssra met Sylvanas's expectation in leaving the Horde in exactly the haughty, grandstanding manner befitting the Nightborne. A _speech_. A _godsdamn_ speech. A rousing one, by all reports, and one of her spies told her there had been _fireworks_.

That only served to stick in Sylvanas’s already tender craw, and she spent the next several days with her temper thinly veiled as she spent entirely too much time twisting arms among the remaining Horde Leadership while fantasizing about razing Suramar to the ground.

Harleen had been relatively easy to discuss matters with and she had few worries about Lor’themar. Rohkan was someone she needed to keep an eye on; but the Darkspear would follow the Orcs and she’d rid herself of certain problematic old bastards decades ago.

Baine, now, _Baine_ she needed to talk to directly. He was close to Jaina, and Sylvanas had never _quite_ trusted him entirely after the Blood War. He was friends with Anduin as well, and his ties to the Kaldorei had grown in recent years, which only contributed to her suspicions.

She believed the Horde could survive losing the Shal’dorei. But the Tauren? Someone had once told her that Thunder Bluff was the moral backbone of the Horde. As much as the thought left a sour taste in her mouth, Sylvanas couldn’t entirely disagree; and if that backbone broke it would shatter the Horde and likely fracture the Alliance as well.

A part of her would still appreciate the latter, but that part of her was one to be ignored. 

Stewing on her throne would only get her so far. Once she felt calm enough, Sylvanas left the Hold—and nearly ran into Jaina.

She stared at her, momentarily at a loss. This was another crack, another fracture, though one she should have predicted. But Jaina’s expression was less hateful than the last time she’d seen her.

“Where are you going?” Jaina asked.

“Thunder Bluff. I need to speak with Baine.”

Jaina pursed her lips, then twisted her hand as she called up a portal. “If this is about Thalyssra I’m going with you.”

Sylvanas raised her eyebrows. “Do you think you can stand to be in my presence for long enough to be productive?”

Stepping close, Jaina leaned in until her lips were a hair’s breadth away from Sylvanas’s. “You’re being snippy with me to hide your insecurity, Sylvanas.” She stepped back, eyes a flash of ice. “I’m still Lady of Orgrimmar, and I’m still your consort. We can discuss our _personal_ problems later.”

Then she was through the portal, and Sylvanas thought that that was at least a start. And she could work with such a start, though she wondered when she’d softened so much that Jaina’s words stung and her frequent absences from her side felt like she was missing half her heart.

The portal left her in Baine’s throne room, Jaina off to one side as she and Baine stared at each other. Sylvanas remained silent, studying the scene as one might study a wolf and her prey.

Baine approached Jaina, pressing his hand to his chest. “Lady Proudmoore.”

“I’m still Jaina,” Jaina replied, expression softer than it had been since before her death. “Just new, and... ‘improved.’”

He glanced at Sylvanas, then back towards Jaina, clearly not comfortable with talking to her while Sylvanas was present. She simply shrugged at him and folded her arms, as if _daring_ him to ask her to leave. Jaina steadfastly ignored her presence.

A heavy sigh rattled through Baine’s nose as he spoke. “I’ve been worried about you, Jaina.”

“Dying can be an ordeal,” Jaina agreed, and though her face remained neutral Sylvanas could feel the shift in her energy. Her death had been a traumatic one, as deaths often were. Anathema as the idea was to Sylvanas, she knew Jaina needed to talk to someone about it. While she’d prefer _herself_, she’d take just about anyone at this point.

Jaina’s back stiffened. _You’re thinking too loud._.

Usually, Sylvanas could keep her thoughts out of Forsaken heads, but she and Jaina had once been as one. That might have changed the calculus, just a little bit; she gave Jaina the mental equivalent of a rude gesture and smiled lightly as Jaina clasped her hands behind her back, digging her nails into her palms.

“Are you…. did you…” Baine struggled for words, eyes flitting to Sylvanas briefly before returning to Jaina’s face. Bluntly, he asked, “Is this what you _wanted_?”

“I don’t know,” Jaina replied, the honesty writ in her voice and in her mind.

Sylvanas forced herself to back out before it would become impossible for them to extricate themselves from each other. Jaina signed a thank you behind her back and Sylvanas remembered what hope felt like.

It was a disquieting feeling, this desperation she felt for things to be on an even keel between her wife and herself again. She’d become soft, soft, _soft_.

“I didn’t have my stone, and I wasn’t ready to die.” Jaina said the words quietly, almost inaudibly, as if she hadn’t realized she was going to say them until she had. Sylvanas could feel an almost imperceptible nudging in her mind, but stubbornly ignored it. “I can’t tell you _why_ I left it that day.” Her hands reminded tight in each other behind her back. “I tell myself that I didn’t expect anything to happen, that … I thought it would be safe. Maybe I’m fooling myself.”

Anger radiated off of Jaina in waves, the kind of anger Sylvanas hadn’t witnessed from her since the early days of the Compact. It had the distinction of being both alarming and alluring.

Baine snorted, then wrapped Jaina into his arms. Jaina flailed momentarily before she went still. Not relaxed, but still. Her head turned slightly towards Sylvanas, weary resignation within her eyes.

“So,” Sylvanas said, after far too awkward a silence. “To where will Thunder Bluff turn?”

There was precedent now, to join and then leave. And Sylvanas was left with the task of holding the reins without pulling too tightly. A balancing act that she was uncomfortable and unfamiliar with compared to her usual strong hand.

Baine knew, his arm remaining around Jaina as he turned to face Sylvanas. Baine knew he held an advantage. “My people were Horde before you were, Warchief. And they will be Horde long after we are all gone.”

His words had been careful and measured, but Sylvanas didn’t hear the ‘we’ in his statement. She only heard _you_.

****

******

The White Lady hung in the sky between two constellations, looking down at Jaina in silent judgement as she stood on the shore of the Great Sea.

She was alone; she’d made sure of that, made sure Kalira had gone for the night, that Tyra would leave her alone. There’d been a letter with a stamp she recognized as belonging to Yukale, and she’d left that in her office.

Once, everyone had thought she’d died. They’d gathered before a pyre, to send her off in proper Horde style. But she was Jaina Proudmoore, a daughter of the sea. Water, not fire, was how she should have been entombed.

Jaina had died, and yet there was no reason to mourn her. She stood, moved, thought and felt; so what _was_ there to mourn? Was this what it was like to be _Forsaken?_

Water lapped against the wood of a rowboat as it sat in the sand. A figure lay in it, a straw dummy dressed in Kul Tiran green and Dalaran blue. Jaina put her foot on the stern and pushed the boat into the water.

“A tad dramatic, don’t you think?” Sylvanas appeared to completely ignore the hypocrisy in her own statement.

“I’m holding a funeral to mourn myself,” Jaina said flatly, feeling Sylvanas’s eyes on her as she watched the little boat getting pushed and pulled by the tide. “Since no one else will.”

“I don’t know whether to be impressed, insulted, or jealous that you thought of it first.” Sylvanas was closer now, only a few feet behind her and to her right.

A current, with a slight nudge from Jaina’s magic, caught the rowboat and pulled it out to sea. Jaina held her hands out, a bow of red flame forming in front of her. The fiery string drew back and a single fire arrow shot through the still ocean air.

It struck the side of the rowboat, magefire licking up the sides and quickly consuming everything within. 

Strangely, Jaina felt … _nothing_. 

As the fire blazed on the ocean, it took with it some of the last remnants of her life. Sylvanas touched the fabric of her sleeve, the coloring redder in the light cast by the pyre. “You burn away the last vestiges of your past, yet…” 

Jaina’s eyes were drawn to Sylvanas’s fingers on her sleeve. The red fabric of the Horde. She had the idle memory that if she killed Sylvanas right now, she’d be Warchief.

But now that she thought about it, she wondered why she hadn’t burned _this_ part of herself as well. Dalaran, Kul Tiras, Alliance. They burned in effigy on uncaring waves, some of the ash drifting back to shore like Hallow’s End.

This year ought to be … _interesting_.

Slowly she put her hand over Sylvanas’s, sliding her fingers nimbly across her wife’s. Sylvanas glanced out to the floating pyre, then back to Jaina, eyes questioning. _Talk to me_ they said.

There were no words she was comfortable saying, not without screaming them, not without spilling her emotions like blood on the sand. Instead, Jaina slid her hand up Sylvanas’s arm, then pulled her down into a kiss. 

The kiss burned like her pyre, searing her to her bones and turning her skin to cinder and ash. Sylvanas’s hands were on her with no prompting, pushing her robe open, her knee pressing between Jaina’s legs. There was something needy in the way Sylvanas moved, her confidence shaken.

Jaina would have let Sylvanas have her here, on the beach, and it wouldn’t have been the first time. But as fingers spread across the skin of her stomach, Jaina went completely still. In a way, Sylvana’s touch felt more alive than either of them actually were.

Sylvanas stilled as well, lifting her head to look at Jaina with eyes shrunk to red points. “What is it?”

“I’m sorry.” Jaina pulled back, torn between escaping and staying and not entirely sure why. “I’m not ready.”

Silently, Sylvanas fixed Jaina’s robe.

Just as silently, Jaina called up a portal and stepped through it.

**********

The noise in the war room was almost deafening. Anduin could barely make out what anyone was saying as people tried to talk over each other. He’d called an emergency meeting almost as soon as the news had reached him, and half the leadership of both the Horde and Alliance had arrived in short order.

Laying on the table between them was a short missive. A list of names, really. 

“Would anyone like to tell me,” Sylvanas said as she strode into the room. “How half the Council of Six could be so easily _murdered_?”

It was a question Anduin had been asking himself over and over for the past several hours. The room fell into an awkward silence, before Tandred asked. “Where’s Jaina?”

“Dalaran. We thought it best she take a look, personally.” Sylvanas picked up the message and scanned the names, lips creasing downwards. “Since some of these people were her friends.”

That hadn’t changed, at least, though Anduin couldn’t find any relief in that feeling in light of the tragedy. “Maybe she and Khadgar can figure something out.”

“Maybe.” Sylvanas let the note flutter to the table, then took in those present.

Like she was doing a headcount. Her gaze lingered on Tandred, who had leaned back against a pillar, arms folded and expression downcast. He’d lost his mother and sister in the same day and as far as Anduin knew the two hadn’t really spoken since she’d been raised.

Before the Lord Admiral could notice the scrutiny, Anduin said. “Cenengel remained in Stromgarde with Vereesa. I’ve not had word from Tyrande or Thalyssra yet.”

“I would like to meet the person that would attempt to move on Whisperwind or the First Arcanist,” Sylvanas mused, echoing Anduin’s concern at their lack of presence. But he couldn’t blame either for stepping back. If it was an option for him he’d have seriously considered it.

“As would I, but I doubt that’s of any concern.” Anduin leaned on the table. “In the meantime, I called this meeting so that we can plan out how to assist Dalaran in this trying time. I’ve already assigned Shaw to assist and I was hoping…”

Sylvanas met his eyes and nodded once. “Besides my wife, I can task one of my most trusted rangers in the investigation.”

From what Anduin understood, Sylvanas’s new Champion was trusted but investigation wasn’t one of her strong suits. He’d wager Kalira, or Anya. Since this assassination involved three mages, chances were magic was involved, and Anya was more experienced with tracking magic; but Kalira got along well with Jaina and they’d be assets to each other. Sylvanas would probably have to give it some thought before a final decision.

That anyone could get into Dalaran and take down not one, but _three_ Archmagi was a frightening thought, and Anduin could feel the undercurrent of fear in the room. In a way it was like an attack on all of them, and not just because of Dalaran’s neutrality.

The hairs raised on Anduin’s neck as he wondered if the rest of them were vulnerable too.

It was Tandred who broke the new silence. “Bloody changes like this are difficult for leadership and the people alike. There’ll be a lotta folk asking questions, wanting answers. And that’s not even getting into the grief.”

“How is Kul Tiras holding up?” 

Anduin did a double take at Sylvanas and he was sure he wasn’t the only one.

“Well, half the population mourned and the other half threw a party when my mum passed, and the halves switched around after… my sister.” It was hard to read the expression on Tandred’s face, but his voice was laced with conflicted emotion. “We Proudmoores have always invoked strong emotions in our people.”

Sylvanas leaned her hip against the table, and pressed. “You were never supposed to be Lord Admiral. But your brother died, and then your sister abdicated and passed on all rights. And with Katherine gone, all that remains is you, and your lovely children.”

Genn shifted on his feet and growled out, “Thank you for that summary. I’m sure the Lord Admiral wanted to hear it.”

“It is what it is,” Tandred answered. “And it can’t be changed now, even if Jaina wanted to reclaim her birthright.”

“Because she’s Forsaken?”

Tandred locked eyes with Sylvanas. “Because she’s _Horde_.”

That was always a statement that gave Anduin pause, and he resolved to think about the unspoken part of Tandred’s reply later. “Was there a point to that observation, Warchief?”

She turned her gaze to him, challenge in her eyes. “Jaina would wish to know how her homeland fares in light of recent tragedies.”

That too was something that gave Anduin some amount of pause. He nodded, and changed the subject. “Moving on. I’ll direct Shaw to coordinate with your people.”

“Should we have a champion assist?”

Anduin glanced at Dagran, and nodded in agreement. “Does anyone have any suggestions?”

“Ravenwing,” Sylvanas said. 

It felt somewhat appropriate; Anduin knew the rogue had worked with Shaw on several other occasions and had managed to ingratiate herself to most of the leadership of both factions through stubborn persistence and a firm moral center. It helped that she could be a useful liaison with numerous other factions as well, including her own people. “Does anyone know where she is?”

Liadrin stepped into view from the other wide of Baine. “She was with Valeera last I knew. Assisting her in her… project. I haven’t seen either since we got back from the Swamp of Sorrows but I think Alleria knows where they are. I’ll ask her tonight.”

“You locked that artifact you discovered in the Kirin Tor vault,” Anduin mused. “There might be a connection.”

A commotion down the hallway drew everyone’s attention as a page rushed up towards the throne room. The boy skidded to a halt, panting to catch his breath. The words spilled out of his mouth in an almost unintelligible fashion. “Your..highness...es? Every...every death knight in the city just marched out through the front gates!”

As Anduin tried to process that information, a lone figure strode up the hallway and into the throne room after the page, ice and snow whirling around it like a storm and preventing any guard from getting close.

Belariss Sundancer stood in the entrance to the Warroom, eyes the color of ice and skin like watery ash. Her voice echoed off the masonry. “My master has a message for the Horde and the Alliance.”

“_Your_ master?” Sylvanas sounded like tempered steel.

“He offers you a choice.” Bela smiled. “Surrender, and join us.”

Sylvanas barked out a laugh, and Bela stood there unmoving, that unnerving smile still on her face.

“And if we choose to ignore that?” Anduin asked.

“Join us anyway.”


	9. Cold Heart

****

**II**

Dirt and bone splattered around craters left by cannonfire and yet the Scourge kept coming, crawling and running over the bodies of their fallen comrades. And some of the fallen rose again, familiar faces with glowing blue eyes staring into nothingness.

A’sooka made sure her arrows struck them true; her friends deserved mercy and she could only hope someone would do the same for her.

The attacks were relentless. They’d catch a break, a few moments to breathe, and then the next wave would come, crashing against the walls like the sea battering the shore. And just like a crumbling tidebreak, each wave left the walls weaker.

There was no way they could hold out forever like this; and A’sooka couldn’t even be sure that their distress calls had been heard. The first messenger she sent had been one of those she’d had to deliver mercy to during the last wave.

A’sooka wondered just how they could fight an enemy that didn’t know fear or low morale. That just pushed and fought and clawed and killed until there was nothing left, and then the next shambling corpse stepping over what remained. Even the Forsaken among them were shaken and weary; they remembered what it was like to have their identity and life under another’s control. One archer was particularly accurate in shooting down their risen friends.

What they needed was to rally, to start pushing the Scourge back, if such a thing was even possible. How they had managed to beat the Scourge the first two times was beyond A’sooka’s understanding. There were too many and...

A distant, whining hum drew her attention to the south. There was a flash of light as something shot across the battlefield and hit the center of the mass of Scourge. The detonation was blinding, and when A’sooka’s vision cleared half the Scourge army was gone, and the other half were pulling back while simultaneously on fire. 

A Horde gunship came into view, turning to aim its broadsides at the remaining Scourge. Another flash of light screeched across the battlefield, incinerating another section of Scourge. Then the broadsides opened up and A’sooka knew there’d be no more flashes of light.

With a warcry, A’sooka drew her swords and leapt off the battlements, rolling as she hit the ground. Others followed her as she led a charge through the Scourge lines, pushing them back and destroying any that lingered too close to their blades. A’sooka twirled her weapons, impaling one Scourge and decapitating another. She twisted around, her blades deflecting a sudden attack from her left.

A whistling runeblade nearly took her head off and she staggered back, deflecting another strike and then a third. Her swords locked with those of her opponent’s and she stared into the burning blue eyes of a Death Knight. They were practically nose to nose, and A’sooka would recognize that face anywhere.

“_Bela…._?”

Belariss furrowed her brow, pushing hard against A’sooka as she twisted her weapon in an attempt to break the lock. 

A’sooka held her ground, heart racing from more than the exertion. Excitement, hope and fear all formed a tight knot in her chest. “Bela, it’s me, it’s A’sooka. You remember me… right?”

Death Knights were different from front line Scourge, they just _were_. They retained some of who they’d been in life, their individuality, and A’sooka had known her share of those who’d once served the Lich King. At least, she’d known them before every Death Knight in the world had returned to Northrend.

And now, the rumors she’d heard about Bela appeared to be true. That it had been Bela who’d delivered Bolvar’s ultimatum to the leaders of the world.

That it had been her wife, dead for three years, who had returned.

A’sooka was not going to just give up on her. Not when she knew, she _knew_ there was a chance to bring Bela back. To bring _all_ of them back. It had happened once before and it could happen again.

Bela nearly wrenched A’sooka’s arm from its socket and A’sooka slammed her head into Bela’s. They went down in a tangle of limbs and armor. A’sooka quickly lost track of the rest of the battle, her entire focus on the Blood Elf pinned beneath her. “Come on! Come _back_ to me!”

Icy pain shot through her right arm and A’sooka rolled away in an attempt to break free. Bela followed her, slashing at her leg with a saronite dagger, the blade gouging deep into her armor and then biting into the ground. 

Digging her left hand into the ground, A’sooka pulled herself along away from her wife. She glanced back, kicking once at the blood elf, then again. Even the crunching of Belariss’s nose did nothing to stop her.

Just like the Scourge.

Heart as heavy as the ice that encased her right arm, A’sooka drew a pistol and pointed it between Bela’s eyes. “Don’t make me do this.”

Something flashed in Belariss’s eyes, and she hesitated. In that second’s hesitation, a massive ball of fur and teeth slammed into Bela and both Death Knight and assailant disappeared down a crater. A’sooka scrambled to her feet, her arm dead and useless at her side. 

In the crater, Bela was wrestling with a bear druid, twisting out of the way of powerful claws while holding the mouth open with both hands. 

A’sooka was intimately familiar with the druid. Lyndra Moonglaize had been stationed at the garrison for half a year and shifted genders with the same fluidity as changing forms. They roared as Belariss kicked them off with enough strength to send the druid momentarily airborne before they crashed down onto a line of Scourge.

Moving quickly, A’sooka slid down the crater to Lyndra’s side. She stared across at Belariss, lifting her pistol again. For a long, tense moment, no one moved. And then the ground rumbled, and a horn sounded retreat from the airship.

Belariss straightened, the shade of her eyes growing brighter, almost white. Her hand shook as she lifted it, pointing a gauntleted finger at A’sooka. “Run. I won’t let you go again.”

Without waiting for A’sooka’s response, Lyndra shifted into stag form, using their antlers to launch A’sooka up over their head and onto their back. They were off like a shot, A’sooka clinging on for dear life as she looked back at Bela. As they rose out of the crater, she saw an endless line of shambling dead, abominations, scourged Nerubians and new creations to give even the hardest Forsaken nightmares.

The army stretched on like the sea, and yet A’sooka returned her gaze to one singular form, until long after they were out of sight.

**********

They couldn’t continue like this. The Scourge had crashed down upon the garrisons in Northrend like a hammer to an anvil, sending the defenders scattering like ants. Those that had survived the strike were attempting to regroup on the Broken Isles and several other islands nearest Northrend. As of yet, Bolvar had done little more than assume control over Alliance and Horde Death Knights alike, and claimed every square inch of Northrend.

Anduin closed his eyes, the arguments of the others droning in his ears like so much noise, in a way that was somewhat familiar. _Bolvar_. It hurt to think of him, of the man who’d been like a father to him. A hero of the Alliance; and now their newest enemy.

Or simply an older enemy in a shiny new hat.

“If we try to—”

“—that can’t _possibly_ work and I will not—”

“You damn fools—”

“We can continue to discuss this, but what I wish to know is where Whisperwind stands—”

“Neither she nor the First Arcanist has responded to my call for—”

The voices bled together again, a rising sound that set Anduin’s teeth on edge.

And then Jaina slammed her staff on the ground. “Shut _up_, all of you!”

The Warchief opened her mouth and the look Jaina gave her very clearly implied the statement included her.

The Lady of Orgrimmar’s voice shook as she spoke. “We are, perhaps, mere weeks away from the Scourge invading Kalimdor or the Eastern Kingdoms, or both. Our sensor nets in the Great Sea are picking up increased Naga activity. The _last_ thing we need is to be arguing our heads off at a time like this.”

She straightened, looking around the Warroom at each of them with her eerily glowing eyes. “We should counter-attack before Bolvar consolidates his position. Throw him off just enough to buy us more time to prepare.”

“That will not likely buy us too much time,” Anduin found himself pointing out, glancing at Sylvanas. To his surprise, she nodded and agreed.

“Indeed. But every second saved is a second to prepare.” Sylvanas leaned over the map, staring at it. “A three-pronged attack, then? My Champion can lead the main push from the Howling Fjord. Two smaller forces can come in from the north, over the mountains, and harass the main Scourge army.”

It was a better plan than Anduin could come up with. He looked around, counting the faces and feeling the painful absence of Tyrande, and even Thalyssra. What would they do if Suramar and Kaldrassil locked themselves away? Suramar had survived ten millennia beneath a shield, and there were precious few ways onto Kaldrassil that the Kaldorei would allow. They could hold out for a time.

“I’ll have one of my champions lead the first harassing unit,” Anduin said. “I’m open to suggestions on the third.”

“What about defence?” Baine had been pacing back and forth for the better part of the discussion, and he exhaled sharply in heavy sigh. “Or the Frost Wyrms that have been haunting our skies at night?”

“We can rely on the champions to organize spot defence while we get more long term solutions in place. As for the Wyrms…” Jaina fixed him with a look, expression dark. “I’ll take care of that, personally.”

**********

The night life in Dalaran hummed outside the window, a distant and dull sound that Liadrin scarcely gave notice to. She sat on a couch, sandwiched between Lady Alleria and Valeera Sanguinar, while Valeera’s strange Lightforged Draenei friend hovered nearby, quite literally. They’d all eschewed armor for a more casual look, though Liadrin was having certain regrets about that.

Alleria leaned back against the couch, crossing her legs and looking down at her drink. Looking into her eyes was like gazing into the abyss. “Ever since Bolvar made his intentions known, I can feel that void artifact you found. Like it’s calling to me.”

“It could be a powerful weapon against the Scourge,” Valeera pointed out, leaning over Liadrin to look more directly at Alleria, and giving Liadrin an eyeful of two of those regrets.

Steadfastly ignoring the cheeky smile Valeera shot her way, Liadrin interjected. “No. There’s too much risk, we don’t even know what it does. For all we know it’s somehow tied to the murders on the Council of Six.”

“Almost everyone that matters has forgotten about that,” Alleria pointed out. “The war came on its heels almost a little too quickly, if you ask me.”

Valeera straightened, and for just a moment Liadrin thought she might have meant to say something. But the rogue opted instead to refill her drink. Liadrin frowned. “Valeera, what is it?”

“It’s nothing. I don’t really think there’s any link between a void artifact and the attacks on Kirin Tor archmages.” She shook her head, rubbing her fingers idly on the rim of her glass. “In case you forgot, Jaina Proudmoore was the first target.”

“I thought it was disgruntled loyalists to her father?”

Valeera shrugged. “I don’t know, Alleria. I think there was more to it than that.”

“Perhaps,” the Draenei said. “Perhaps it was beings, how do you says it? Stooges. They were used.”

In all the months since they’d met, Liadrin had still not learned the woman’s name. She was downright _dodgey_ about it, often declaring that names were ‘transitory nonsense and completely unnecessary.’ She was, frankly, chaotic.

“Something already in motion,” Valeera mused. “Coopted by someone in the shadows.” She glanced at Alleria with a smile. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

Something in Alleria burned, despite her words. But that thing always burned when Liadrin was close to her, and she could only assume it had to do with the light within herself. Two forces diametrically opposed and yet bound to one another by the nature of the universe.

Liadrin caught herself staring at Alleria only when she felt Valeera’s hand casually on her back. She shot her a look, but didn’t raise an objection. Truthfully, it felt nice, and with evil returning to Azeroth, she would take comfort wherever she might need to.

“Ladies,” Valeera said, swinging her legs up until she was using both Liadrin and Alleria’s laps as leg rests. “Let’s table the artifact for the time being. For now, we need to discuss Northrend.”

**********

There was a table beneath a canopy roof, leaves and vines growing between the trees to form a natural, circular wall. Thalyssra watched as a moons-shrouded Tyrande stood in the clearing, her attention focused on the maps and tiny, carved figures on the table.

There was a tense set to her jaw, a tightness to her lips and eyes that belied the stress she was under. Thalyssra knew Tyrande was struggling with the exact same questions that she was. About what to do to protect her people, to honor forgotten promises or to look inward.

She stepped into view, allowing her footfalls to announce her presence. Tyrande scarcely noticed her, though her ever-present aide nodded in greeting.

“I’ve been gone three days and you’re in almost the exact same spot,” Thalyssra said.

“Give or take three inches.” Alyssa’s smile was as tense as Tyrande’s shoulders and somehow Thalyssra believed she wasn’t exaggerating all that much. 

“We are separate now,” Tyrande murmured, not really looking at either of them. “Dare we tend to our own forests while our friends suffer?”

Thalyssra approached Tyrande, circling around the table and coming to her side. She leaned her hip against the table, folding her arms and favoring her lover with a considering, gentle look. “You and I both know the Kaldorei have given enough. Defend the Covenant, of course, and allow volunteers to go where they wish to against the Scourge. But my people are not helpless, and you’ve carried this world on your shoulders for ten thousand years while we hid beneath our bubble and thought you all dead. It’s our turn, now.”

Tyrande regarded her silently, weighing her words and allowing them to sink in, but her expression was unreadable and her thoughts her own. But Thalyssra meant every one of them. WIth hindsight at her back, she understood better the way the world had been before the barrier had come down, just as she knew Tyrande understood better why the barrier had been up in the first place. It was one of those things that they never would meet quite at the middle on, but had come to accept.

Suramar would join the Horde and the Alliance in fighting the Scourge, and if the Kaldorei wished to lock their doors and tend their wounds, Thalysrra was the last person on Azeroth to judge them for it.

“May I say something, my Ladies?”

Thalyssra glanced at Alyssa as Tyrande nodded absently.

“We are not at our full strength. But neither are the Shal'dorei. The Horde and Alliance have not fully recovered from the last few wars, either, and likely never will.” Alyssa advised. The young priestess held a stack of field reports and loose sheaves of Tyrande’s working notes, clutched anxiously to her chest; but she was firm and sure of her words. “It need not mean returning to the arms of Stormwind or Orgrimmar, but without the might of our two peoples, the Compact will fall and then we will be next. At the least this will prove that letting us go was their loss.”

“Committing everything we can comes with risks,” Tyrande said, looking squarely at Alyssa.

“Yes, my lady.” Alyssa bowed her head to Tyrande, “But I am willing to take them and I know the rest of our people are as well.”

Slowly, Tyrande drew a scroll from within her robes, and held it out to Alyssa. The doubt was gone from her eyes, if it had ever really been there to begin with. “Go to General Feathermoon and give her these orders. She is to mobilize at once.”

Once Alyssa departed, Tyrande turned to Thalyssra. “Thank you.”

“I think your mind was already made up.”

“Yes.” Tyrande’s smile was faint. “But I needed to hear that. We do not stand alone.”

Taking Tyrande’s hand, Thalyssra traced her knuckles with her thumb. “Suramar will begin deployments in a few hours. I’ll make sure my generals coordinate with Shandris. What shall we tell King Wrynn and the Warchief?”

“Nothing.” Tyrande’s teeth glinted in the moonlight. “Let them be _surprised_.”


	10. Trial By Fire

They came on silent wings, the only sign of their passage the azure glow of the magic that animated them. Either by luck or happenstance, a sentry spied the frost wyrms, and sounded the alarm. Bells rang across Thunder Bluff as bonfires were lit and arrows ignited.

The first arrow struck true, only to enrage the lead Wyrm. It passed over several buildings, the power of its wings knocking one down. With a roar, it breathed ice across the platform. Other wyrms dove, slamming into structures and bridges, tearing at the wood with claws and teeth and bashing with wicked, spiked tails.

Stumbling out of the inn, Yukale struggled to buckle her belt without losing grip on her daggers. Her lover came running out after her, shrugging into her chest armor as she ran. Yukale glanced at the Ren’dorei, a sardonic note to her voice. “That tears it, we’re never having sex again.”

“It’s not like it’s the end of the world this time.” Unariel flashed her a grin, before looking up to observe the Wyrms. “The Cataclysm happens the night we’re first together and you never let me forget it.”

Yukale noted that the Wyrms were following a specific pattern as they flew, one that was working very well to sow panic and chaos. “Don’t forget the night the Iron Horde attacked, or the Legion returned. Every time...” She dashed for a building, climbed up the side and peered into the darkness.

“Tell me babe, what do your Kaldorei eyes see?”

“A dozen Wyrms, mostly big ones. Arrows that hit their mark are just pissing them off.”

“So I take it the plan is to piss them off but in our general direction?” Unariel looked down into the gaping abyss between two of the plateaus. “Draw them away from the city?”

“Yeah, something like that.” Yukale dug her right foot into the roof, eyes following movement in the darkness below. Then she sprung forward, sprinting as fast as she could, and leapt, arms stretched out like wings.

Once, decades ago, she’d made a similar leap from the top of the violet tower in Dalaran towards the Crystal Forest far below. Tonight, her fall was shorter and her target much, much bigger than the woman that Unariel had been guarding at the time.

Yukale landed on the back of a Frost Wyrm and dug her daggers deep into the back of its head. It shuddered beneath her, bellowing its rage, before arching up and rolling in an attempt to dislodge her. It only made her hold on tighter, pressing her blades into the monster’s skull until she felt something give. The light in the wyrm’s eyes gave out, and it started to fall. Yukale jumped, free falling towards Thunder Bluff. A flash of movement and magic and her feet made contact with ice. As she slid down the magical ramp, she saw Jaina atop the zeppelin tower, magical energy rotating around her like a storm.

Bolts of lightning, balls of fire and lances of ice shot from Jaina’s hands, each finding a mark and striking true. 

The slide ended abruptly and Yukale tumbled along the ground before coming to rest in a pond. She pushed herself up, staring at Lady Proudmoore. Even from down here she could make out the anger on Jaina’s face and that azure glow of her eyes.

“That’s two down but my landing was better,” Unariel said, holding her hand out to Yukale. Yukale took it, not taking her attention from Jaina.

A mountain of ice jutted up from the ground at the base of the bluff, jabbing upward and impaling two wyrms on ragged spires. Others cried out, and Yukale could hear the sound of heavy wings coming their way.

The bluff shook so hard she expected it to collapse. Several buildings _did,_ as a monstrous wyrm easily twice the size of Sindragosa barreled towards the tower and then launched back into the air. It broke through the tower, shattering it. Wood rained down in splinters and logs as Yukale and Unariel dove for any kind of cover they could find.

Yukale felt the ground tremble as the giant wyrm landed again, and cautiously peeked out from under a precariously dangling beam. Jaina stood before the undead dragon, a shield warbling and wavering as icy breath crested around and over her like a wave.

Only because she’d been looking, only because her eyes had been focused on Jaina’s face did Yukale see the black blur that whipped past Jaina’s head, her hair flicking in its wake as a black-feathered arrow sank into the wyrm’s eye. And then Sylvanas was airborne, leaping over Jaina’s head, firing arrow after arrow almost faster than the eye could see. A dozen shafts stuck out of the wyrm’s head and neck. It reared up, then spun around and lashed at them with its tail.

Ice encased the tail, freezing it in place. Sylvanas’s arrows caught fire mid-air, the flame spreading from points of impact. Jaina ran forward, holding her hand out to Sylvanas, who grasped it and flung Jaina like a human projectile. Jaina struck the wyrm through the chest, encased in an arrowhead of ice the size of a ship’s mast.

The wyrm flailed and writhed, shrieks and roars dying down to an agonized death rattle before it finally lay still.

Slowly, Sylvanas approached where Jaina stood, putting her hand on her shoulder. But Jaina flinched back, Sylvanas scowled. Yukale couldn’t hear what the warchief said, but it did not go over well with the Lady of Orgrimmar. Jaina glared at Sylvanas, anger in her eyes, and just a little hurt. Then she teleported away, leaving Sylvanas standing alone amidst the chaos.

****

**********

When had it all gone to shit? While her forces prepared to once again invade Northrend, Sylvanas was stuck in Orgrimmar while her wife was Gods knew where, the Alliance had yet to respond to her last communique and the so-called Elven Covenant sat on their asses twiddling their thumbs while the world burned.

Clearly, Suramar was a bad influence on the Kaldorei.

Idly fantasizing about what Kaldrassil would look like on fire, Sylvanas shifted on her throne, one leg tossed carelessly over the armrest and her head dangling over the other, hair limp and lifeless as it brushed the floor.

She could, she supposed, make it _look_ like the Scourge. She might not even be the first suspect! It would serve Whisperwind right, and if Sylvanas was very, very lucky, Greymane would be visiting when the tree went up in smoke.

Oh, but the smell of burning fur would be _glorious_. A fantasy, nothing more, but by the _gods_ she was going to enjoy thinking about it, accompanied by the mental image of Genn Greymane roasting.

“Wow, I think that’s the first time I’ve seen you smile in awhile.”

Sylvanas lifted her head, squinting at the figure that walked towards her. Ravenwing? Rather than let the irritating Kaldorei ruin her fantasies, she simply imagined _her_ burning too.

And she actually kind of liked Yukale, at that. “What, exactly, do you want? And what are you even doing here? The little lion see fit to respond to my messages, or are you just paying a visit on your way back from whatever you were doing in Thunder Bluff?”

“Visiting a friend, thanks.” Yukale tilted her head, and Sylvanas pondered first when the rogue’s hair had gotten so long and second why she even noticed it. Yukale seemed to flow between Horde and Alliance territories like water and at some point Sylvanas had come to accept it as part of the natural order of things.

And yet, she asked again, “So what do you want, _champion_?”

“I drew the short straw,” Yukale said, cheerfully, holding the offending object with a smile that immediately soured Sylvanas’s good Genn-on-fire-fantasy mood. “Certain people have been… noticing … your mood swings, over the past week, since the Frost Wyrms were repelled from Thunder Bluff. And the conspicuous absence of Lady Proudmoore. Ty— some people swear you’ve been _moping_ and frankly it’s freaking everyone out.”

Through gritted teeth and with the same kind of warning as that of a snake’s rattle, Sylvanas hissed, “Get to the point.”

“You need to talk to someone, Warchief. Not just you, but Jaina too.” Yukale tucked the straw behind one ear. “Preferably together, mind.”

“Are you…” Sylvanas swung her leg off of the armrest and sat up normally. “Are you suggesting we see a _relationship_ counsellor?”

“Yep, and I know just the orc!”

“There’s an _orc_ relationship counsellor,” Sylvanas said, at once intrigued and horrified by the concept.

“Orcs have marital problems too.”

“We aren’t having _marital_ problems.”

“Jaina is going through something traum—”

Sylvanas burst to her feet, glaring at Yukale with eyes the color of blood on stone and her screech made the very walls of the hold shake. “Don’t you _dare!_ I, of all people, know what my _wife_ is going through!”

Yukale’s feet shifted the barest fraction of an inch, as though she hadn’t quite decided whether fight or flight was the appropriate reaction. To her credit, she did neither, looking directly into Sylvanas’s eyes as the warchief came chest to chest with her. “We all have our traumas, Warchief. You’ve caused some of mine. Jaina has caused some of yours and you hers. But we find ways to keep going, ways to move on. Maybe Jaina needs this time. Or maybe the two of you need to talk to someone impartial, before the landscape shifts so far between you there’ll be no way to cross the chasm.”

“If my favored Champion was not so fond of you, Ravenwing, I’d mount your head on my wall.”

“You’d have to catch me first,” Yukale replied, holding up her hand and spinning a ring between her fingers. Shocked, Sylvanas looked down at her hand as the Kaldorei put the ring in her palm.

Sighing, Sylvanas slipped the ring back onto her finger and briefly considered her words. “Parlour tricks will get you nowhere. But I shall… _consider_ your words, though I cannot speak for Jaina.”

That seemed to be good enough for Yukale, who backed up a bit, unwilling to turn her back to Sylvanas just now. A wise move, but before Sylvanas could mock her for it, a messenger ran in. 

“Warchief! Our generals report they’re about to make landfall in Northrend.”

Weariness resonated in Sylvanas’s bones. 

“So it begins anew, then.” 

****

**********

Alami closed her eyes, her grip tightening on her axe as the little landing boat bobbed in heavy waves, the goblin-made engine straining against the surf. Standing next to her was a stocky orc rogue a year or two younger, her expression calm. Like Alami, there was a splash of paint across her face, that of her mother’s clan, as Alami wore her father’s. They’d been friends for years, since even before Rokk had discovered her truename.

Around them were a hundred warriors of the Horde, of every race and shape and color. Some chomped at the bit, ready for war and ready to kill. Others stood in silent contemplation.

Alami thought she might actually be among the oldest in this battalion save their commander. They were all green, like a newly grown sapling, not yet weathered by the hardships of war or battle.

Lady Proudmoore had pulled her aside, shortly before her ship had sailed and told her there was no dishonor in surviving. That fighting to live and to ensure your comrades lived was honorable and even necessary.

She opened her eyes as the cold, ice-locked shore approached. “We trained for this.”

Rolling her shoulders, Rokk nodded, reaching for Alami’s armor to inspect it. She clucked her tongue. “Left this unbuckled again.”

Alami swallowed, not knowing whether it was Rokk’s proximity or the pending battle that made her blood sing.

Probably both. “What would I do without you?”

“Fall face first onto the shoreline.”

A horn sounded from the front of the landing boat as a tall, broad-shouldered Tauren woman called for their attention. Both of her horns had been shattered in some battle long before Alami had even been born, and a ragged pattern of scars crossed her face, neck and shoulders. “Listen up, kids! In sixty seconds we’ll be on shore and this door comes down! Our objective is to cross the ice and make it up the hill. We’ll rendezvous two miles inland with the other units, where champions have already been clearing for a camp. Expect heavy resistance. Lok’tar Ogar! _For the Horde!_”

The battlecry rose up, shaking the craft with it’s ferocity. Alami’s blood burned, the edges of her vision turning red as she looked at the blade of her axe and the words engraved there.

For her Orcish father, who’d died gloriously, for her Elvish mother who continued to live with honor. For Lady Jaina and the Warchief. For the _Horde!_ Alami bellowed, her wordless cry joining the rest of her battalion as the boat came to a halt and the door slammed down, locking into the ice with thick spikes.

It must have only been seconds, but in Alami’s eyes, an eternity passed. A troll three paces to her left boiled alive as he was struck by a fireball. The elf just in front of her was felled by an arrow in the eye. Rokk vanished in a cloud of smoke and Alami used it for cover as her comrades surged forward. 

They’d barely made it onto the ice and a third of their number were dead or dying. Their commander lay face first, blood soaking into the snow. Decades of life and battle experience gone in a heartbeat.

Someone shouted orders and she obeyed, sliding across the ice towards the slope of land just a few yards away. A scourged creature leapt out a crack in the ice and she swung her axe, severing head from body. Arrows whistled past her, too close for comfort. She could hear, somehow, over the growing din of the battle and the screams of Horde and Alliance alike, the sound of those arrows striking down her fellow warriors.

Alami did not risk looking back, knowing to look back would make her hesitate. And if she hesitated, she was dead. If she was slow, she was dead, like the Forsaken that was suddenly ripped apart in front of her.

She spied Rokk weaving around a Nerubian, hopelessly outmatched by its size and strength and barely fast enough to avoid a killing blow. On instinct, Alami surged forward, just as the Nerubian unleashed a powerful spell.

Her axe took the blast like a shield and her face burned, the skin of her forearms charring. With a roar to make her father proud, Alami brought her axe up and into the creature’s jaw. As it fell, she turned to check on her friend. Behind Rokk, blood blanketed the ice and the ground of the slope, hundreds of bodies laying where they’d fallen. Of her own battalion, she saw only a few stragglers. There were maybe thirty or so left out of nearly three hundred.

Most were as stunned as she felt, standing or wandering aimlessly as the battle moved north along the beach. A few stopped to check for wounded among the bodies. How many minutes had it been since they’d landed?

It didn’t matter. She glanced at her friend, then back down towards the beach. None of them had been prepared for this. But even her mother had once been untested; the champions of Azeroth that she’d grown up studying, worshipping and adoring had once been just like her.

Until a day when fate had left them no choice but to be more than what they were.

Wounded, but mostly covered in blood not her own, Alami raised her axe, calling out to her comrades. “_ARE YOU SIMPERING PUPS OR ARE YOU WARRIORS OF THE HORDE?!_”

They looked to her, they heard her. 

And they responded with a deafening roar.


	11. Revelations

Stormwind was quiet, as though a hush had fallen across the city. By now, the attempt to stop the Scourge at the source was well underway, but communication had been tricky. Anduin had not received any answers from Sylvanas despite the numerous communiques he’d sent, and something was jamming the radio system Ravenwing had set up. 

Anduin was of the mind to take a portal to Orgrimmar rather than rely on any further messengers. There were only two real possibilities; Sylvanas was ignoring him, or the messages were not reaching their destinations.

He leaned back on his throne, tapping his finger on the arm rest as he considered his options. The Kaldorei were silent, even Ironforge had been less than communicative. He was beginning to dislike the quiet. So he stood, stretching his arms and his sore back. “I need a mage capable of taking me to Orgrimmar.”

His aide startled, then nodded and ran off to find a page to send to the Mage District. In the meanwhile, Anduin thought about what he was going to say to Sylvanas and wondered what Genn would think.

A shadow fell over him, a dark shape like that of a small drake, but when he turned, hand halfway to his sword, only a man stood there. A familiar face, with a familiar smile. “Planning a trip?”

“Wrathion.” Anduin relaxed his shoulders. He still had several questions for him, and didn’t quite know what to make of him now. The way the dragon looked at him made Anduin wonder if he was on the menu.

“Oh, do you feel that?” Wrathion tilted his head, folding his arms as he looked past Anduin and down the hallway beyond the throne room. “Arcane power, great potential. Like the two of us she will be tested before her time. Funny, how that works. How often we rely on Champions to fight our wars for us. Imagine what would happen if they tired of this game and turned their wrath upon us instead?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Anduin glanced away, then back to Wrathion, but the dragon was gone.

“Majesty.” The page bowed low, then straightened. A young woman stood next to him, dark haired, with eager dark eyes and golden brown skin. 

“Lady Annabelle, the mage you requested.”

“Lady” Annabelle couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and yet Anduin could sense that power Wrathion spoke of. He wondered why she wasn’t in Dalaran, but he gave her a smile to try to alleviate her clear nervousness. “A pleasure to meet you, miss.”

She bowed as well, biting back a nervous laugh. “You wished to go to Orgrimmar, your majesty?”

“I do, have you ever been?”

Annabelle nodded. “A few times. I’d often accompany my mother to visit with Lady Jaina. They’re friends of a sort and Lady Jaina was always interested in my progress with magic.”

“I see.” Suddenly a few things became more clear. Jaina probably saw something of herself in this girl.

“Do you think Lady Jaina is there? I’d like to see her again.”

“I don’t know, but I hope so. I’d like to speak with her as well.” He gestured. “I’m ready to leave.”

She looked around, confused. “Just … just us? No guards?”

“I’ve got you, haven’t I?”

Squaring her shoulders and suddenly looking much more serious for her age, the girl nodded. “That you do, your majesty.”

Flexing her fingers, she drew up the portal, the spinning shape of Orgrimmar sharpening into view.

They arrived at the front gates, Anduin certain they’d given the guards a heart attack as they were ushered into the city, and then into the hold.

The Warchief waited for them, apparently tense enough to be sitting upright in her throne. She glanced only once at the mage before focusing her attention onto Anduin. “I’ve been considering doing the same thing. Tell me you never actually received any of my messages?”

“Not a single one in two weeks,” he responded. “And I don’t think you got any of mine. Have you heard from the other leaders in the Horde? Anyone else in the Alliance? Hell, Tyrande—Thalyssra, rather?”

“Bloodhoof just yesterday, but nothing more recent than three days from the others.”

“Obviously our messages are being redirected or intercepted.” Anduin folded his arms, rubbing his fingers over his chin and stroking his beard.

“Majesty, Warchief, if I may?”

Both turned to the young mage, Sylvanas not even trying to hide her amusement. Anduin nodded at her.

“I could retrieve the other Compact leaders. I know the magical pathways like the back of my hand. I could bring them here, or elsewhere if there’s a place you could all meet without risk of magical eavesdroppers.”

“My wife’s office is warded against such things,” Sylvanas mused. “We could meet here and then convene upstairs.”

That was all that Anduin needed to hear. He nodded once more at Annabelle. “We’ll write a quick letter and affix our seals to it. Do you think you can get everyone here within the hour?”

“I’ll portal each of them myself,” Annabelle promised.

“Weren’t you all pimply and gangly the last I saw you?” Sylvanas asked, motioning for someone to bring them parchment. “Though I suppose you’re still a _little_ gangly. You remind me of your king at that age, actually. All leg and limb and awkwardly staring at boys.”

Anduin sighed heavily.

***********

As far as A’sooka was concerned, this entire invasion was turning into a debacle. She and some other champions had bled and cried to clear a camp, only for less than half the expected reinforcements to arrive from the beaches. None of their intel had prepared them for just how strong the Scourge presence was, or just how hard they would be to fight.

Even veterans of the previous campaign in Northrend were shocked. 

Whoever Bolvar Fordragon had been before, he held his forces in an iron-willed grip, with a level of control that even Arthas hadn’t commanded. They were more coherent in their fighting under Death Knights who had once been friends and lovers.

The Horde Commander was a young half-orc who seemed to have risen to her position by sheer force of personality. A’sooka had watched her lead the survivors of her battalion right through the Scourge line, carving a gouge in it that A’sooka had taken advantage of. The Scourge had broken and retreated, buying them some time to prepare for the inevitable counter-attacks.

Three had come on the first two days, and then none in the six days since. It left them all restless and being constantly on alert was bad for morale.

So she didn’t say anything as she half-listened to the banter on the lines, and studied the cards in her hand, and then the red-head across from her. “You know, I didn’t know you were allowed to field promote the Horde.”

Cenengel Windrunner’s hair had lightened over the years, peppered with grey at the temples, and her face had new lines since the last time A’sooka had seen her, mostly of the laughter variety. The General grinned at her. “Blood Guard Alami had a nice ring to it, and I get certain perks as military leader of Stromgarde.”

A’sooka was pretty sure that Cenengel had saved her life at least twice during the initial melee so she wasn’t really going to second guess her, nor was it a reason to get mad that she kept losing at Hearthstone. “Even with the ears, she looks so much like her father.”

“Aye.” Cenengel glanced over to where Alami stood on the northern wall, axe slung over her shoulder. Her eyes seemed to be looking to another time and another battle. “We’ll make sure she gets to go home to her mother and brother.”

“As many of us as we can,” A’sooka agreed. That included Belariss. She’d seen her wife, once or twice, since her initial escape from Northrend. Never close, only ever at a distance, but that actually gave her some hope that Bela didn’t want to fight her directly if she could help it.

Maybe there was a chance.

“We’ll save her too.” There was a sadness in Cene’s eyes, an understanding that made A’sooka wonder if she’d lost someone to Bolvar too. Not her wife, at least, but someone she’d been close to.

“Just wish I knew if there was a way to break his control.”

“We could get together forty of our best champions and join Lady Proudmoore in Icecrown,” Cene suggested.

“I thought that was just a rumor?”

Cene shrugged, setting down a minion card that A’sooka would be hard pressed to counter with her current hand. “I’ve heard unsubstantiated reports that she’s been laying waste to entire Scourge camps. Just shows up like some vengeful spirit and obliterates everything in sight.”

“If true, I am _not_ gonna complain.” A’sooka rested her chin on her hand, a couple of her face tendrils wrapping around her fingers as she regarded her hand, and the table before her. 

At least that was a better thought than Jaina having just disappeared. She was, after all, an army unto herself and after the ‘incident’ her power had only grown. Whether it was something to do with the resurrection magic used or something else entirely, A’sooka didn’t know. She didn’t particularly care either. 

“Have you spoken to Lady Proudmoore? Since the...you know.” Well maybe she cared a little. “Has she changed much?”

Counter-spelling A’sooka’s move and knocking her hit points into dangerous territory, Cene shrugged. “She changed. I mean, dying will change anybody. But I thought she was still….” She waved her hand, searching for the words. “Still there. Still who she was, just… different. Like summer changing to fall, or hard winter.”

“Do you … do you think there’s a spring, after that hard winter?” A’sooka realized she wasn’t just talking about Jaina anymore.

Cene met her eyes. “What do you think?”

A’sooka inhaled slowly. Bela’s face swam into her mind. Her sharp features, the way her eyes would glow with delight while reading. The soft steel that was ever present behind her voice. She would be different, she knew, but she would love her still. “I’ve always loved spring, and every spring is different.”

Cenengel started to reply, but cut herself off as shouting began on the East wall. Moments later the horns blew, signaling that Scourge had been sighted. Abandoning their game and their cards, the two women bolted for the wall. A’sooka scaled it in a single jump and leaned around some of the spiking to get a better view and immediately regretted it. The General joined her a moment later, holding two claymores easily as long as A’sooka was tall, and nearly as wide.

“There’s only a few of them,” A’sooka said, glancing back at the endless expanse of undead marching their way.

“When was the last time mail was magiked out?”

“About an hour ago,” A’sooka replied, a nervous sort of tightness in her chest. “Forgot to send something?”

“Something like that.” Cene strapped her swords to her back. “Most kills buys the next drink?”

A’sooka unslung her bow and knocked an arrow. “I’ve got expensive tastes, you’re going to regret that offer.”

“General!” Alami called out. “Scourge to the North as well!”

Cenengel rolled her shoulders and bellowed, “Hold the walls or die trying!”

It was hopeless, A’sooka thought. They would be crushed and the Compact’s offensive would die with them. Maybe that had always been the plan, to buy their homelands enough time to prepare for a prolonged campaign; just one fought from Ashenvale to Booty Bay, instead of in Northrend.

A voice called out, rising with the beginning notes of a song. It was more a dirge, really, but A’sooka knew it. All Draenei knew this song; sweet and soft, a lament for Draenor that once was. A young bard had painstakingly translated it into Common; after Teldrassil it had effectively been gifted to the Kaldorei, a sharing of grief in a language beyond words. Since that first adoption outside the private songs of the Draenei, over the years,, it had taken on new meanings. A lament for the homeless, for those devastated by war and by genocide.

There wasn’t a being among them unaffected by most, if not all of those things. From the Draenei diaspora to the Old Horde killing her people then pillaging across Alliance lands and burning Stormwind. From the Forsaken, to the three Kaldorei volunteers on A’sooka’s left, one of whom still sported burn scars. And their cousins on the other wall, the Sin’dorei slaughtered by Arthas and abandoned in the aftermath.

Tauren hunted by centaur. Orcs in concentration camps. Trolls. Dwarves. Gnomes and on and on and on.

In that moment, for the first time, A’sooka realized that not a single member state of the Compact was untouched in one way or another. All had been like prey. All had been the hunter too. Bloodied and bloodying, reacting over and over and over again until Jaina Proudmoore and Sylvanas Windrunner had found a solution to finally end the cycle of hatred.

Haltingly, other voices joined the woman who’d started singing, and then more and more. So be it. If all those who had once been bitter enemies died, at least it would be together.

A’sooka drew back her bow, calling out for other archers to make ready. 

And then a horn sounded, a sweet, mournful sound like a breeze rippling through a forest. Out of the sky with the sun behind them came a hundred hippogryphs, each carrying a Kaldorei sentinel, druids weaving between them with savage grace.

A nightsaber roared as a virtual army of mounted sentinels crested the southern hills. Shandris Feathermoon pointed with her glaive, and the cavalry surged forward, down the hill and towards the advancing Scourge. A’sooka blinked back tears as she heard another horn ring out like silver bells. 

Mages teleported in front of the wall and on top of it, Shal’dorei and Highborne both. They unleashed hellfire and ice on the approaching scourge and the defenders rallied, renewed energy flooding through them. The power of _hope_.

Frost Wyrms and Wyverns rose to the sky to battle the hippogryphs as a Blue Dragon joined the battle, the Shal'dorei mage atop her back flinging spells with fluid grace.

Cene shouted a battle cry and led the charge over the wall and A’sooka loosed the first of many arrows.

***********

Alyssa stood at the shore, head bowed and bathed in moonlight as she waited and prayed. It had been an arduous time for her, and she needed to hear from her goddess, to know that she was doing right by her. That her work was necessary and that she was being watched over.

She lifted her head, letting the moon fall on her face.

And then, as if in answer to her silent pleas, a divine form rose from the sea in a great, crashing wave. Alyssa lowered her head, taking in the exquisite form of her Goddess. 

Of her _Queen_.

Azshara was rapturously beautiful, as she always was, and Alyssa was momentarily dumbstruck, as she always was. Water ran down her body in enticing rivulets, making her skin and scales gleam. It was almost blinding in the light of stars and moon and Alyssa stared in feverish awe. The Queen of the Oceans was her goddess and yet she deserved the sky too.

"_My_ most beautiful acolyte," Azshara crooned, one tendril trailing slowly across Alyssa's cheek and then under her chin, where it stilled save for the lightest of stroking by the tip. "What do you have to report?"

Taking a shuddering breath to steel herself, Alyssa replied. "Tyrande Whisperwind suspects nothing, your grace. She is unsuited for the leadership she aspires to. It tires her, and she grows ever more dependent on her attendants and her...lover, the traitor from Suramar. It has allowed me to solidify her trust in me; she leans on anyone consistent in her court. I have even carried intel. She will likely continue to ask me to do so, as your time grows closer and my access to her plans becomes of interest to you. And she was receptive to my plea that the Kaldorei join in the battle against the Scourge. Many will fight. Many will die."

"Mmm. You've turned the situation to our advantage." Azshra slithered closer. She was close enough now that Alyssa found it difficult to breathe, to ignore her scent and the warmth of her body despite the chill of the ocean. She gazed into two of Azshara’s eyes, zeal rising in her own.

Azshara didn’t seem to notice the effect she had on her spy. "This may turn out even better than I'd hoped. I’ve changed my mind. I do not want you to _kill_ her. No, no; when the time is right, you will bring her to me. That feral mongrel is attempting to rebuild _my_ empire and I intend to let her. She will serve me well.” The thought seemed to amuse her; her half-smile was dizzying in its perfection. “She will do the labor of integrating my scattered subjects, rejuvenating my armies, reestablishing trade to enrich my kingdom, streamlining the workings of authority; and then when my _servant_ has made all in readiness for her mistress, I will take it from her. With her forces diminished, the Kaldorei empire need only be plucked ripe from the vine; and she will look so lovely on her knees before me."

"She does not deserve the honor. But all shall be as you wish, my Queen." Alyssa bowed low, only for one of Azshara's hands to pull her back up by the chin. A tendril slid around Alyssa's waist; another crept around and up her thigh while a third deftly flicked away the fastenings of her thin robe, cool suction tugging imperiously at her skin as the tendril lingered for a moment. Her heart raced and she couldn’t think or speak for the glory that lay in her Queen’s myriad eyes as they all fixed onto her. She felt a hand at her back and another sliding across her hip as if Ashara wished to worship _her_. The very thought was blasphemous, yet euphoric.

"You have done well, and I reward my acolytes when they do. Come to me, _my_ sweet Alyssa, and bathe in my essence." 

_She knows my name…_ She felt dazed, as though she were floating, her skin catching fire, crackling and burning wherever Azshara touched her. Her whole life had led to this, from the secret altar in her parents’ bedroom to being selected for this mission, plans _centuries_ in the making.

“Let me worship at your altar, my Queen.” She found her voice, thick and heavy to her ears and she missed the cruel smile that played across her Queen’s lips.

Alyssa tilted her head back and closed her eyes as she was drawn into the Queen's embrace, enraptured by the ecstasy of the moment. It was a blessing to touch such a being, a blessing to be wrapped in her arms and her tendrils, to be lost in a religious fervor so sensual and powerful it defied word or reason. Risen to the pantheon of her gods, Alyssa became as one herself.

She awoke with the morning twilight, mouth tasting of salt and an ache throughout her limbs and body. The only evidence that her Queen had blessed her was a simple shell necklace that had been carefully placed near her head.

Gently, reverently, she picked it up, lifting her eyes to the sinking moon as if to defy Elune herself. “I will see your priestess laid low, forced to her knees before the _true_ goddess. This I swear.”

And she would enjoy _every_ minute of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pls listen to Taylor Swift's False God while reading that last section there ;)


	12. Steady On

Belariss remembered the last time she’d felt warm. She’d been curled in front of the fire, leaning into A’sooka’s arms. Her wife’s fingers had been stroking through her hair and Bela had hummed wordless approval at the feel of it, of her scalp being massaged. 

She remembered the rest of that morning just as well, every intimate detail. And then that night, when the spark of her life had grown cold forever.

How could she have gone back to A’sooka, after that? 

She stalked the Hall with heavy steps, turning angry eyes on anyone who dared to look at her. Bela could hear the arguments; it was always the same arguments, between those who remembered, and those who chose to forget.

The only reason the war with the living had stalled was because the Scourge were split down the middle. It was a fine line for Bela to straddle, ignoring her own feelings, holding the two sides together. 

She passed another Blood Elf, a woman who nodded at her once. Seranta, she knew, fought Fordragon's command the hardest among their growing splinter faction. But Bela always cautioned her, as she cautioned many others, to keep those sentiments at bay if she had any wish to maintain her own mind.

Even with the Lich King in their minds, he couldn’t crack the deepest recesses of their thoughts. But it was too soon, and Bela wasn’t entirely sure they could break his hold yet.

What Fordragon wanted, Fordragon got, and not for the first time Bela thought it would be less cruel, if her will had been entirely stripped and her mind wiped. Because then she wouldn’t have the torment of warm arms to taunt her.

_Lady Belariss._

His voice filled her consciousness, pushing out all other thought. She paused, the only outward change a slight tic over her left eye. 

_Report to me at once, my child._

Bela’s legs took her in that direction before she had a chance to decide for herself if she wished to go. She had enough will left to take the long route, a series of spiraling staircases that allowed her to prepare herself for the Lich King and his Horsemen.

Whitemane, as always, was the first to greet her, eyes roaming up Bela’s figure. “Good morning, pet.”

Ignoring her, she passed the others, sharing a nod with Nazgrim and Mograine, and giving Trollbane a smile. But her expression hardened as she looked up at the throne.

When she’d first come to Icecrown, Fordragon had still been mostly frozen, even nearly two decades after he’d taken up the helm. Active, of course, subtly and slowly directing Death Knights and Scourge forces alone in a long, strategic plan known only to him. But still near frozen. Now, however, he was mostly thawed, his eyes a dull red glow, and his voice, as always, gave her such a headache.

She knelt, not entirely of her own will, and bowed her head to him. “My king.”

“I know your mind. I know what dogs your thoughts.”

A’sooka’s face was forced from her memories and displayed for the Lich King, the violation making some small part of Bela cry out in anger and grief.

“She is strong. Loyal. She will make a powerful Death Ranger in my army. Bring her to me, _alive_. And together we will break her.”

No. No no _no no_ no! But Bela could only nod. “By your command.”

Bela stood, turning on her heel. She passed the Horsemen, passed Sally Whitemane. 

“Go with her, Whitemane. Slay any Champions you deem too troublesome to allow to live, and make sure she completes her assignment.”

She closed her eyes, taking the teleporter before turning in the direction of the frozen stables. When she passed Seranta, she didn’t look at her, she didn’t acknowledge her presence and in fact she forced herself to forget the other woman existed.

It was safer for her, safer for all of them that way, to bide their time. But the Lich King would only tolerate so much dissent, and perhaps Bela had gone too far in her idle daydreams and memories. She would not draw attention to one who might be stronger than her.

The stables were before her sooner than she’d expected, and Whitemane was already waiting for her. The former priestess leaned in, trailing her finger along Bela’s ear. “I can no longer burn the unworthy in righteous fire, but I can deliver unto them the agony of death. Either we bring your wife in and make it quick. Or I will make it _slow and lingering_.” 

“Bold of you to assume you’ve any more choice in this than I do.” Bela smirked at her, and mounted up. “Let’s get this over with.”

**********

Valiance Keep was held together by wire, spit and a vain hope, Jaina was sure of that. It had been reclaimed after the Covenant had arrived in Northrend, and Jaina had shown up a day later, in desperate need of a bath. She just felt so _exhausted_, bone-weary in a way that she thought only the Forsaken could be.

But it was good, she supposed, to see people again, be they living or undead. _Free_ people.

It was a thought that had nagged her continually while she’d carved a swath of destruction through the continent. How different, truly, were the Scourge and the Forsaken?

Jaina leaned against the keep wall, occasionally handing out some mana muffins to travel- and war-weary soldiers and champions, as she watched more and more people disembark from ships or come through portals. 

It was through one of the latter that a familiar figure came, wrangling a pair of nervous mules and an energetic felhound. Pushing off from the wall, Jaina absently cast a spell, leaving a full table behind for the hungry, and moved slowly across the grounds, towards Ihz and her relatively small mule train. “Just two today?”

Ihz responded gruffly, “You try getting ‘em through a portal on a good day, an’ today ain’t a good day.”

Jaina managed something almost like a smile, but it faltered as she got a better look at one of the mules. It wore Forsaken-style barding and armor, a long felfire scorch along the left flank that no amount of polishing would ever clean away.

Just like that, the thin veneer covering her nerves wore away, exposing them for how frayed they truly were. She reached out, pressing a shaking hand to the beast’s neck. Not Millet, no, or even Thorn, though none could ever replace Millet in her mind; but like Millet she responded well to the presence of undeath.

“There’s a clear path along the coast if you’re to resupply our forces in the Dragonblight.” Jaina’s voice sounded distant, detached even to her own ears. Jaina was consumed by a profound sense of loss, adrift at sea with no wind or sextant to guide her. Her pale face was reflected in the dark pool of the mare’s eye; the icy sheen of her hair, the sapphire light in her eyes, the thin frown gracing her lips.

“Aye, but you don’t need a good train of mules to navigate the _easy_ roads. _We_ know better than to pick the reckless ones, though.” Ihz placed her hand on Jaina’s arm, slowly, carefully, and yet Jaina didn’t bristle at being handled. 

Oh, she had in the past, and she might yet in the future. But today she found herself almost leaning into the touch. Jaina looked again at the mare, at the familiar armor that offered protection. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.” Slowly, almost as though her hand was moving of its own free will, she started to trace protective runes. Even the cleared trails were dangerous, the new coalition between the Compact and Covenant barely holding the line against the Scourge; and failing to at several points. “What’s her name?”

“Sage.” Ihz looked at her like she was a _particularly_ stubborn mule. “You’re wearing yourself into exhaustion. An’ don’t go telling me you don’t need sleep. Forsaken are a lotta things, but they still get _tired_.”

This time, Jaina bristled. “Oh, so you’re the expert then?”

“More than you, mon,” came the matter-of-fact reply.

That brought Jaina to pause, and she turned her head to look at Ihz. 

Belatedly, she fully noticed the armor her fingers were dancing over. Forsaken-style, yes, which was odd enough when trolls and orcs had their own warbeast armorsmiths; none of them specialized in horses, but even a custom piece tended to be cheaper. This was...not cheap. Simple, yes, all hardened leather and chain mail, no frivolous touches or precious metals, no unnecessary weight; but it was high quality, and a perfectly matched set. Even secondhand, even thirdhand...light-cavalry armor like this was far beyond the resources of a freelance mail courier.

“Ihz,” she said slowly. “How _long_ have you been a friend to the Forsaken?”

Ihz didn’t answer her at first, giving a low whistle to the fel-touched hound; an Elwynn hunting dog, by the look of him. Jet-black with burning green laced beneath the skin he might have been, when she found him near Suramar, but the only symptom of long-term corruption remaining in the pup had been his appearance…

“I trained a wolfdog once,” Ihz finally said, short, abrupt. “Around...eh. After the Cataclysm, before...Theramore.” Jaina gave a shallow nod to acknowledge her friend’s hesitation over the name. “Name of Frostbite. Tried to take my arm off about five times in the first two days, she’d been hurt that bad. Big animal, too, even as a pup.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, you can say so, Ihz, I know you’re working—” 

“I _am_ talking.” Ihz’s fingers flexed on Sage’s lead rein. “A dog gets treated that way...Loa themselves couldn’t tell you what the hell it’s _really_ like. Oh, he trained ‘er all right, mon. Taught her damn well her warnings would always be ignored. That asking t’be left alone was useless, tryin’ to leave or turn away didn’t work, a growl just got her hurt more...animal gets treated like that long enough, they learn the only way to get the world to stop hitting ‘em is to bite, hard. An’ to do it first, before you get the chance. An’ the awful thing is...it works, Lady. A dog bites hard the first time you put your hand near it, who’s gonna get close a second time? No better way to keep themselves safe, aye?”

Jaina felt her eyes soften against her will. She’d never believed for a moment that Ihz’s stubbornly desensitizing her beasts to the Forsaken was nothing but professionalism; that steady, consistent protectiveness over the years, oddly personal feud with Sylvanas aside, there had always been something more there. But…

“Only one way to change that behavior,” Ihz muttered, ears flushed a dark navy that Jaina was certain had nothing to do with the cold. “You prove ‘em wrong. You talk soft, move slow, don’t flinch or yell—never, ever set ‘em up to fail. Do it every time. You take on a dog like that, _you’re_ the one that’s gotta prove yourself first. Sometimes it ain’t enough, still, sometimes a dog has to be put down for everyone’s good. But most of the time they just need to learn what safety is. Not even _kindness,_ aye? Just let the world be _fair.”_

“...Does Sylvanas know you talk about her the way you talk about kicked puppies?”

“A kicked puppy didn’t burn Darnassus.” Ihz made a face, then ran her hands through her messily cropped hair. “Whipped dogs think the whole world be their enemy because it always has been. They’re not stupid, they’re not wrong even; they know what they’ve been taught. You gotta start by teachin’ em different. _Then_ you’ll know what kinda dog you’ve got.” She frowned, a mixture of concern and wariness on her face. “...Frostbite was fine, Lady, she gentled like a dream an’ I adopted her out to a paladin who wanted a hunting dog for ‘er son. Don’ cry, mon, th’ Warchief’ll kill me.”

“I’m fine,” Jaina managed, voice cracking. 

“Steady, Lady.” Ihz pulled her hand away, reaching around Jaina to check the straps on a saddle bag. She clicked her tongue and the two mules started to walk, the young hound bounding past Ihz as if to take the lead.

Wordlessly, Jaina found herself falling into step next to the troll. What else could she do? She couldn’t return home; she’d have to face Sylvanas and she wasn’t ready for that, not yet. Her feelings remained complicated; oh, she still _loved_ her, but she didn’t trust herself not to destroy everything they were in a fit of pique, if she hadn’t already.

And there were still things to do. Her eyes drifted to the North, where the tallest spire of Icecrown Citadel peeked out above the mountains. Energy crackled in the palm of her hand before she stopped it. “The Scourge seems endless. Every body we throw into the fight is another potential recruit for them, and I’ve never seen so many people carrying the blue DNR stones.” The irony was not lost on her, as she added. “I suppose it’s better to be Forsaken than Scourge. At least we’ve free will.”

Ihz regarded her out of the corner of one eye. “Ranks swelling?” 

“I mean, I’ve always known. It’s just different to _experience_ it.” The faint echo in Jaina’s voice almost quavered. “That’s… that’s why the stones exist. To choose this rather than have it chosen for us.”

Jaina tangled her fingers into Sage’s mane, the gravity of her words threatening to pull her down into the ground, each of her steps as heavy as the packs on the mules. As heavy as the sound of her stone dropping onto the dresser all those months ago. 

“Hard enough living with our own decisions. But we all end up carrying more.” Ihz shrugged one of her shoulders, before guiding the mules onto the road proper.

“I didn’t want to die,”Jaina admitted. Maybe she just needed to accept that, so she could figure out exactly what she was going to do with her second chance, and the power that had come with it.

Jaina noticed for the first time how heavy Ihz’s footsteps were, the darkness around her eyes. If Jaina was tired to her bones, at least her body didn’t technically need the sleep or food she was denying it.

Ihz looked exhausted, and Jaina felt a pang of guilt.

“I never told you,” she said, soft enough to make her friend twitch slightly in surprise. “I was sorry to hear about Barley. I know how much she meant to you.”

That got a tired but genuine smile. “Thought that old bitch was _never_ gonna die.” Still, her fingers tightened briefly in Sage’s mane before gesturing vaguely at the world. “Some of your Alliance seem real sure ‘bout Titans designing all this. Love to know what bastard thought it was funny, decidin’ good beasts would have short lives. It never gets easier, it never hurts the same twice, but…it doesn’t stop ya from lovin’ the next, Lady, aye?”

The look she fixed on Jaina was entirely too knowing, but Jaina was—not nearly ready for that conversation yet. There would be time in a few decades, if they didn’t all die anyway, to process the intrinsic horrors of functional immortality. One thing at a time, thank you very much.

Ihz waited until it was clear Jaina wasn’t going to answer, then didn’t press; a rough three-fingered hand gripped the base of Jaina’s braid much the same way it had just been holding Sage’s mane, and gave a gentle shake before dropping back to the lead rope.

Jaina remembered Sage, now; she felt guilty for forgetting the young mare. Ihz had picked her up in Arathi almost five years ago, an unbroken four-year-old. Jaina had laughed; Sage was a lovely animal for a mule, dark bay with pretty white sabino markings, but she’d been a playful, hyperactive troublemaker and had seemed like a thoroughly unsuitable prospect for a _warhorse._

It had been silly to doubt Ihz, really. Sage had steadied with patience and training, her intelligence channeled into a mature, bright-eyed focus and twitching ears. Her muscles had filled out, restless energy perfect for the rigorous combat training. She hadn’t been born for this, perhaps; but the potential had always been there. Jaina just hadn’t seen it.

Not the first time.

Again her eyes turned to Icecrown, and the ice in her veins turned to resolve.

**********

For every victory there seemed to be two defeats, and the more often this happened, the more tension filled the ranks. Alami had already broken up two fights between Horde and Alliance soldiers, and as she wearily poured herself a drink from one of the kegs, she heard another one starting up. Gods, she wished Cole would get back from her scouting mission before there was no camp left.

Slowly, she turned in time to watch a human Paladin (because it was almost always a human Paladin) shove a lanky Orc warrior named Krog.

Krog snarled, baring his teeth, grabbing the nearest bottle and smashing it. The human drew a knife that might better be described as a small sword and sneered. The two started to circle one another as dirty looks and dirtier words started to be exchanged among those around them.

Alami was torn between letting them kill each other and hoping that got it out of everyone’s system, or trying to step in before old rivalries did what the Scourge had so far failed to accomplish.

She felt it, first. Before she heard the soft footsteps behind her. Minuial emerged from one of the healer tents, clad in a white robe, lined and highlighted with gold. Her sleeves were stained red and green and purple, even having been rolled up, and so was the front of the robe. The blood of Horde, the blood of Alliance, the blood of every race that stood against the Scourge.

The priest exuded power, and Alami thought, for perhaps the first time since she’d been barely old enough to hold a sword, that her mother wasn’t simply a champion of the Horde. She was a champion of _Azeroth_. One of only a few hundred, their numbers dwindling with the years, as war and a hard life, or simply old age, took them from the world. 

Minuial’s eyes flashed with barely contained rage as she got closer and there was a burst of light like a summer morning. The orc and human both staggered back, shielding their eyes. Even Alami, a number of yards away, had to lift her hand to block out the shimmering golden light.

It faded, and Minuial stepped into the place the two had been standing, glaring at each in turn. “My hands are covered in the blood of your siblings in arms and _this_ is what they sacrificed themselves for?”

The knife in the Paladin’s hand wavered, and Krog shifted from heel to heel, unable to meet the Sin’dorei’s eyes.

“Horde. Alliance. We’re all on the same _side_, barriers that we tore down a long time ago with bloody _fists_. We paid with sundered shields and shattered spears and so many of us who never came _home_. Have some _fucking_ respect.”

Something in Minuial’s voice resonated through Alami, not just the raw emotion, or the pain, but the power and conviction in her words. Alami remembered the time she’d glued the tusks from a wild boar to her own small ones. The other children taunted her for being more elf than orc, despite having her father’s skin and stockier build.

But the steely gaze of her mother, the blood on her hands, and the way the two would-be fighters backed away made her realize there were reasons to be proud of her Elven half, and that she’d _never_ felt ashamed of her mother. 

As her mother started to walk back to the tent, Alami fixed a glower on the two. “Dundee, Krog. You’ve got first watch tonight and if you don’t get along I’m gonna make the healers sew you together by the nipples until you do.”

To their credit, neither human nor orc offered any options, merely retrieved their weapons and hastily ran towards one of the watch tower.

A figure appeared at her right, and if she hadn’t already been expecting Rokk, she might have lashed out. Still, she forced herself to relax, which was not particularly easy when Rokk’s hand brushed her arm. 

“Where do you need me?” 

Managing to not blurt out something entirely inappropriate, Alami coughed and ordered. “I need you to put together a team to sweep and clear out any scourge nests nearby.”

“Anything else?” 

“If you find Cole send her back here on the double.” If they’d been alone, maybe Alami might have said something more. Or maybe be tempted to kiss that rugged face and the broken tusk on the right side.

Rokk glanced around quickly, eyes focusing over Alami’s shoulders for a heartbeat before she nodded. “We’ll be quick, but thorough and burn it all with fire.”

“Better take a Mage or Lock then.”

Grinning, Rokk tossed Alami a cocky salute before signaling to a pair of goblin twins and running over to them.

Feeling every day of her almost twenty years, Alami sighed. She looked back towards the healer’s tent, spying her mother still standing at the flap. Minuial smiled proudly at her daughter, before ducking inside.

Alami grinned, swinging her axe off of her back and looking down at the steel. It still shone, though mostly because she polished it ever chance she could. Her father was probably proud of them both right now.


	13. Cloaked in Shadow

“A blood, night and void elf walk into a bar...” Yukale’s voice was quiet, though Valeera could pick up the amusement that tinted it as the Kaldorei seemed to slip out of the shadows, joined a moment later by Unariel. 

“Just us?” Unariel asked. “Where’s—”

“Couldn’t make it without drawing suspicion,” Valeera answered quickly, feeling that it would be ill fortune to even say the name aloud. One never knew if the walls were listening, though she’d done her best to make sure that wasn’t the case. “It’s just us tonight.”

They were in an upstairs room at the Snug Harbour Inn. The smell of the sea was strong even through the closed windows, and the sound of a ship’s bell heralded the arrival of a vessel in port. There would be the usual flurry of activity and most eyes would be turned towards the docks, and not to whatever a trio of elves might get up to alone in an inn room together.

“Last I heard you tracked down the last of the Daelin loyalists.” Yukale leaned back against a table, folding her arms. She was dressed casually, boots scuffed from travel, a long, flowing black skirt and a long sleeved red shirt unbuttoned down to just above her navel. It was a sharp contrast to Valeera’s tight and clean leathers, leaving only her hands and head exposed.

Like Yukale, Unariel seemed to have been in town on pleasure and not business. She wore shaded spectacles pushed up onto her forehead. Her attire was a bit closer to Valeera’s, though her top was zipped down. “And left them bloodless.”

Valeera smiled briefly, before the expression fell off her face. “I did, but I also discovered there’s more to this than face value. Or rather, I confirmed my own suspicions, which is one reason our friend is not present.”

Yukale slipped something out of her pocket, the light glinting off of tarnished gold as she flipped a coin in the air. “Why would the Uncrowned want Jaina Proudmoore dead?”

“And why would they convince a bunch of Kul Tirans to do the work for them?” Una asked.

“It honestly didn’t take much effort to push them into it.” Valeera’s eyes followed the path of the coin as Yukale flipped it repeatedly. 

As she expected, she didn’t really need to spell it out. 

“For one, plausible deniability.”

Unariel nodded. “And I’ll bet when you’re dealing with a mage as powerful as Jaina, getting close to her is the easiest way to kill her. I’m going to guess the other Council of Six murders are related?”

“Yes.” Valeera walked over to the table, unrolling some documents she’d left there, and pinning them in place with small weights. Yukale turned around to look at what she was doing. 

“I’m positive they are planning to tip the scales further, but the reemergence of the Scourge has put their plans on hold.”

“Oh, of _course_.” Unariel leaned on the table. “Can’t destabilize the chain of command while fighting the undead.”

“We’re part of the Uncrowned too,” Yukale murmured, disquieted. “And yet…”

“And yet we’re kept in the dark, and we’ve only got the one light to shine on the shadows.” Valeera traced her fingers along scribbled words. “There was a disagreement. Between myself and some of the others, on what exactly our role would be going forward after the signing of the Compact. There were some among the Uncrowned who would very much like to take a harder, more active stance. It’s clear now I’ve been frozen out of the high level decision making, but I suspected that was the case already.”

“I had no idea.” Yukale looked up sharply, though Valeera couldn’t tell which part bothered her more. That the Uncrowned were trying to move the pieces on the board or that she’d been excluded.

“You’re too close. To the Alliance _and_ the Horde, and…” Valeera offered her an apologetic smile. “Too soft.”

Yukale bristled, but Unariel put a hand on her arm. “She’s right. You need to be righteously pissed off to be hard enough for what the Uncrowned are trying to do, and there’s only a few people who can bring that out in you, and I’m _pretty_ sure your mother isn’t involved.”

“While this sounds like something my mother would _really_ enjoy being a part of, you’re… right. I prefer to stick my swords in people who deserve it.” Heaving a sigh, Yukale looked at Valeera. “So what do we do?”

Deciding to table her suddenly burning questions about Yukale’s family situation, Valeera nodded her head to the documents on the table. “I’ve got a few more people on my side, and one or two that are straddling the middle. We need concrete proof of the Uncrowned’s crimes and information on who they’ll target next, preferably _before_ they kill anyone else.”

“What if we just … exposed their existence?” Yukale suggested.

“They’ll have planned for that, and if I’m being honest I’d like there to still be an Uncrowned left by the time all is said and done. We get exposed and the actual good work we do will be for naught, Schism or no Schism.”

“It’ll probably get turned back around on us while they get away with it.” Sharing a look with Yukale, Unariel added, “Kingslayers and kingmakers… Bet you a hundred gold they were counting on Sylvanas to raise Jaina. To drive a wedge between them and the rest of the Compact.”

Valeera nodded. “The formation of the Covenant was an outcome they’d planned on. So Whisperwind and the First Arcanist are probably safe for now unless they take actions that might interfere with other plans.” 

There was another theory that Valeera was working on one that she kept mostly to herself. She wondered if ultimately, the Uncrowned were looking to install themselves as undisputed masters of the world. There’d been at least one argument along those lines; that the existing leadership across faction lines had proven to be problematic at best and actively hostile to peace at worst.

At least, with the war on, the Uncrowned were unlikely to move on _anyone_. Which meant Valeera’s faction might have a chance. She gestured to the two women. “I’ve been behind the curve on this, focused too much on Jaina’s father and not enough on the Schism, which is probably another thing they were hoping for. So I’d like to try to get ahead for once.”

Yukale stared down at the documents, expression thoughtful. “Well. I’ve got all night. We’ll figure something out.”

**********

The Elf was predictable, Sally gave her that much credit. Oh, it was obvious she struggled with their Master’s will, as so many of the Death Knights did. As if they could ever stand a chance of breaking free. The circumstances weren’t the same as last time. There would be no Lightbringer to inspire them to forge their own path again.

_Let_ the Elf and her friends struggle. They would fail, and if the Master was generous they wouldn’t be punished too severely. It was, after all, the nature of sentient beings to yearn for freedom.

It was that yearning that led Belariss to take the slowest and longest possible route in search of her wife. Love was a feeling that Sally had abandoned with her first death. Love was for fools and the young and stupid.

But, eventually, they found their target. The Draenei wasn’t alone, traveling with three others, but nothing either of them couldn’t handle. Bela stood near a rotted tree, obscured from observation as she watched the four move along the trail far below them.

“I think I understand what you see in her, pet.” Sally leaned her hands on Bela’s shoulder and rested her chin there. “But if you’re that lonely, my bedroom is _always_ open.”

Love might be for fools, but she never had a problem with lust. A woman had _needs_. 

Belariss pushed her off of her shoulder, and drew her runeblade. Sally laughed, the sound delightfully unhinged even to her own ears, and called up the darkest magics from deep within her rotting soul. “I’ll kill the rest. A’sooka is _yours_.”

There was just the slightest hint of a snarl on Bela’s response. “I appreciate your generosity.”

The ground beneath the living roiled and then burst like a festering wound, rotted hands grasping at A’sooka and her companions as they started to choke on putrid smoke.

Bela was already sliding down the slope, hitting the bottom in seconds and tackling her wife out of what had become a localized but deadly noxious swamp.

Sally moved much more slowly, taking the time to enjoy the struggles of her victims. The first, some kind of elf—Sally didn’t care enough to figure out _what_ kind—broke free and charged towards her. She sidestepped a clumsy swipe and slammed the flat of her runeblade against the man’s face. The decay was already taking hold of him, and when he went down he didn’t get back up.

She lifted her blade, pointing it at the other three. Two humans and a Tauren, one of the former on her knees and quite literally coughing up her lungs. But the other two had gotten out in time, nature magic rippling around them like the discordant vibrations of an out of tune lute.

The only thing worse than the Light was nature magic. It was anathema to the creature Sally Whitemane had become. Wild-eyed, she shrieked and leapt in, swinging the sword in a wide arc that severed the human’s left arm and left a shallow, cancerous gouge in the Tauren’s chest.

He cried out, stepping back several feet and pressing his hand to his chest, green energy swirling around and fighting desperately at the infection. Sally smiled, and lifted her sword to her shoulder, the point leveled at the Tauren. But then she narrowed her eyes, and tilted her head. “You. I _know_ you.”

The Tauren shook his head, but said nothing, all his focus on healing himself while he still had a chance to.

Sally smiled. “You were there, at my second death. You helped _free_ me from Demonic influence.” Abruptly, she lowered her weapon. “Leave your friend and go, and I will consider my debt repaid.”

He stared at her in shock, before closing his mouth. Nearby, A’sooka fought valiantly, avoiding every one of Bela’s attacks, though the effort was wearing her down. Wordlessly, the Tauren cast a renewing spell on A’sooka, all the while keeping his eyes locked onto Sally.

“So be it.” With an almost sad look in her eyes, Sally clenched her fist. Instantly, his chest started to ooze anew as the cancer spread. He twitched and shuddered, clawing at his chest and then his throat.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

“Are you done playing with your food?” Sally called out, striding towards the Deathlord. As she walked, she dragged her runeblade around the ground, the earth opening up like a festering wound, bubbling and hissing.

Bela had managed to knock A’sooka to the ground and held her sword at the Draenei’s throat, and looked up at Sally with an inscrutable expression. “She’s down.”

Sally casually waved her hand, skeletal fingers swarming A’sooka’s body and locking her hands and legs in death grips. Slowly, she knelt, caressing the smooth skin of her cheek and playing idly with one of the tendrils. “Well hello, pet.”

Bela stiffened _delightfully_ at the use of the pet name, and Sally picked A’sooka up, throwing her over her shoulder. “Stay quiet, pet, and you shall take your place among us as the Lich King’s chosen. Give me trouble, and you will join the rest of the so-called living among the mindless dead.”

A’sooka immediately stopped struggling, but what gave Sally some small, startling measure of joy was the look on Belariss’s face, and the single bloody tear that ran down her cheek.

**********

It was a beautiful dagger.

Made of truesilver and engraved with runes so ancient they were old even to Alyssa’s Queen, the blade all but sparkled in her hand. Alyssa rocked in place, murmuring the incantation exactly how she’d been instructed to.

Every night, at this exact time, with these exact words, until the spell was woven through the weapon so deeply that it could never be disenchanted or removed.

And then, when she was done, Alyssa wrapped it carefully in mooncloth, and hid it in a hollow on the tree that made up one corner of her chambers, right next to the shell gifted to her by the Goddess to which she gave her all.

The time was not yet right. Alyssa remembered the hands (on her around her inside her) and the whispering of Azshara’s voice breaking through and latching onto her consciousness like a lamprey.

She would know when the time was right. Not yet, not yet, but _soon_.

The sun was rising when she left her chambers, a fact with never ceased to irritate Alyssa. Kaldorei were _nocturnal_ and now that they had extricated themselves from the Alliance, they had no real need to keep to a daylight schedule. And yet they _persisted_, as though that would somehow win favors with people who were little better than _dirt_. 

Alyssa’s duties in the morning were varied outside of religious ones; she gathered messages for the High Priestess, gave appropriate orders in her stead and made sure anything important was lined up. She handled her duties well, being _the_ most trusted advisor among Tyrande’s inner circle. 

It was easy enough. Until her Queen said otherwise, Tyrande’s goals were Azshara’s goals and Alyssa could fake Elune worship with ease.

Sometimes it was tempting, to misplace a missive. Sometimes, a messenger she’d dutifully reported to Azshara’s spies was killed en route. But only sometimes, never enough to raise suspicions. And despite her temptations, despite the way it galled her to be instrumental in anything that brought Tyrande Whisperwind joy or safety, Alyssa never sabotaged her own duties. Her cover had been established with exquisite care, and she was an essential tool in the Queen’s plans; she would not risk attracting attention, let alone suspicion, for a mere moment of spite.

Messengers had a dangerous job, after all. But at the end of it, when all would be revealed, Alyssa wanted to look Tyrande Whisperwind in the eye and demand she name _one_ instance where she had been anything other than the perfect aide.

“Alyssa?”

Tyrande’s voice snapped Alyssa out of her thoughts, and she turned around. “Yes, High Priestess?”

“Walk with me, if you would?”

“Of course.” She pretended to glance around, then asked, “You’re… The First Arcanist is not present?”

“She had to return to Suramar late last night.” Tyrande managed a wry smile. “Something about putting out one of Valtrois’s fires, I believe.”

“Lady Valtrois invited me to one of her parties,” Alyssa observed, falling into step with Tyrande.

“Ah! Did you have a good time?”

Alyssa peered at Tyrande out of the corner of her eye and wondered if Whisperwind _actually_ understood the kind of parties that Valtrois threw. “I had a _great_ time, thank you for asking, my Lady.”

“Good. I have been … relieved, I must admit. At how our peoples are _reconnecting_.”

That was one way to put it, but Alyssa remained silent as Tyrande continued to speak and wondered at the slight twitch to her cheek.

“There was so much heated discussion, and much of the blame falls upon myself for how everything fell apart.” Tyrande’s already darkened eyes appeared to suck in light. Alyssa found it oddly fascinating. Maybe in another life she might have actually been loyal.

“But it’s worked out spectacularly. And not just personally for you. Kaldorei and Shal’dorei are fighting side by side against the Scourge. We’re living together, working together. Your decision to let the Highborne return, I think, made it a lot easier for the general populace to accept.”

After Teldrassil, too, but Alyssa wasn’t stupid enough to voice that thought. Instead, she added, a bit like a dagger prying at ribs, “We stand without the Horde and the Alliance, and now they look to us as—” Alyssa cut herself off, tone changing as she allowed some fervor into her voice, “We were _never_ equal, not truly. Not when everyone bowed to a people who should be as children to someone like you!”__

_ _“That’s enough,” Tyrande snapped, holding up her hand. “They are still friends. Allies against the Scourge and any other external threat that may materialize.”_ _

_ _Tyrande didn’t offer any actual objection to the rest of Alyssa’s words, a poison she hoped would seep into the Priestess’s heart and infect the rest of the wretched Kaldorei._ _

_ _Once the Scourge was dealt with and Compact and Covenant weakened, they would turn on each other. And then her Queen would be master of _all_._ _

_ _“General Feathermoon is here today, for some meetings with myself and other military leaders,” Tyrande said, by way of changing the subject. _ _

_ _Alyssa braced herself for what she knew was to come. “You must be happy to see her.”_ _

_ _“Always. I would like for you to attend to her, Alyssa. She could use … a friend, and she was asking about you.”_ _

_ _While Shandris was actually interesting to talk to and built like a brick house, she paled in comparison to Alyssa’s Queen. _ _

_ _Though, the idea of seducing the General before she sprung her trap on Feathermoon’s adoptive mother _did_ have the same sort of merit as attending Valtrois’s parties._ _

_ _Smiling, Alyssa bowed her head. “I would be honored, my lady.”_ _

_ _The things she did for her Queen._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! And see you next decade!


	14. The Frozen Throne

**One Week to Zero Hour**

The Wrathgate stood, rusted and neglected yet unbroken, a small forest of trees and flowers and grass still growing where Alexstrasza and her brood had once burned away the blight. Leaves rustled in the breeze, a bee clinging to a red flower before lifting off and buzzing away. It was no longer a place for the dead, Jaina herself included.

Even now, Jaina could still hear the echoes of that terrible day. She remembered the look on some of the survivor’s faces when she’d spoken to them in Dalaran a few weeks later. Drawn out faces, ghosts flickering in dull eyes.

The horrible screams had been seared into the land, digging in as deeply as the roots of the Lifebinder’s plants. An echo in her ear, Bolvar calling for Arthas to pay for his crimes. Jaina wondered if things might have been different if she’d been there. If maybe Arthas might have hesitated, if maybe she could have done something, _anything,_ to hold him in place long enough for him to die.

Or at least save more of those taken by the Blight.

Jaina turned her head to the right, staring up at the ridge that had rained liquid death upon Living and Scourge alike. Horde. Alliance. Neutral and not, it hadn’t mattered. A thousand souls had been cut down in an instant here. 

A Horde banner lay charred almost beyond recognition, what little fabric remained flapping softly. 

It was considered an open secret that the Royal Apothecary Society had worked on the Blight at the direct order of the Banshee Queen. But Jaina knew more than any soul, living or not, the full truth of Putress’s betrayal.

She knew what others suspected and couldn’t prove, and she knew it because Sylvanas had opened herself to her so many years ago.

Sylvanas had ordered the creation of the Blight, yes. She’d intended to use it against Arthas and the Scourge, yes. And she would have held onto it as leverage against both the Alliance _and_ the Horde. Protection for her people.

And then Putress had moved too soon. Tested it at the wrong place and the wrong time, though Sylvanas _had_ been somewhat satisfied with the results… 

Jaina looked again at the gate, and then at Bolvar’s shield and the shards from Saurfang’s axe, both of which still lay where they’d fallen. Yes, a successful test, and Jaina couldn’t really blame her wife for wanting such a weapon in her back pocket.

But Jaina _really_ should have been here.

It was too late for regrets, years and decades too late. The wind whipped around Jaina as she lifted her hand, her voice rising, echoing around her. The crickets went silent, creatures bolted through the underbrush and then thunder roared. 

The spell struck the gates, rending them open with such force they’d never close again. It was exactly what Jaina wanted, it was exactly why she’d come here, instead of entering Icecrown through another means. Wrathgate should have never been left standing.

On the other side of the gates, the land was cold and dead, wind pushing snow into dunes and covering the icy ground in a thin, tainted layer. The snow crunched under her boots, the ice sounding like broken glass. Bones jutted out from the ice, some of them moving and twitching. She stepped hard on a roving hand, breaking the fingers and continued towards the Citadel. Above her, the Frozen Throne waited and before her the Scourge had gathered, forming their ranks in preparation for the final push. There were tens of _thousands_. More than enough to push the invaders off the continent, and then swarm over the world like ants.

Was that Bolvar’s plan? Fill his ranks before attacking? After all, declaring war on the living had been like extending an invitation for an invasion of Northrend. Let the armies of Azeroth in and then close the trap around them...

The first of the Scourge darted for her, leaping into the air only for her to casually slap it down with a frostbolt. She threw a fireball at another with a snap of her fingers.

Smiling, Jaina walked forward, taking a slow and leisurely pace as a growing storm of ice and fire whirled around her. It froze or incinerated everything in its path. 

The Scourge quickly stopped throwing themselves at her, instead parting before her, the path through their army closing in her wake.

Bolvar, it seemed, was _expecting_ her, or at least had conceded it would be a waste of resources to try to wear her down enough to kill her. Either way, she left the Scourge alone so long as they kept out of her way.

When she’d been alive, the chill within Icecrown Citadel had bothered her. Nothing had breathed within, save the living that had come to fight Arthas and they were gone now, the forges of the Ashen Verdict long ago cooled and frozen.

Champions had marched through these halls, fighting tooth and nail against Arthas’s most terrible creations. A massive pile of bones still lay where it had collapsed, but as she stepped past it, it stirred, as though responding to her presence.

On the next floor, she found the first of the Death Knights. She recognized most of them, and they her. For a long, pregnant moment no one moved.

A large, hulking Draenei was the first to advance, moving slowly at first but picking up speed as he ran down the hallway towards her. The other Knights watched him, heads turning slowly to follow his trajectory as he lifted an axe as large as Baine Bloodhoof.

Jaina didn’t move, even as he closed the distance, even as the axe swing down, hard and fast to split her in two, only to shatter like glass.

He seemed to hang there, a ludicrously shocked expression on his face as steel and ice penetrated his armor and then his chest and face.

And then he was blown back, landing hard on the hallway and skidding several yards before he went still. Silence reigned, broken only by the tinkling of ice and steel falling to the ground.

No one else on that floor bothered to try to stop her after that, the power gleaming in her eyes and washing over her in waves. As she passed, the Death Knights backed away. Some, seeming to come back to themselves, exchanged glances with others before they turned and ran.

Jaina heard at least one breathless laughter of freedom and her resolve hardened anew.

On the next floor, she mused on the distance it was taking and wondered if she shouldn’t have just stolen a gryphon or something. Bolvar was probably enjoying this. Watching her climb his fortress; for it _was_ his fortress now, and he’d had nearly twenty years to rebuild it. Looking around, Jaina thought she could do better.

There were a pair of Liches waiting for her. They were conjuring an ice-spell and from the looks of it, Jaina guessed they’d been charging it up since she’d first entered the fortress. Jaina rolled her eyes, taking purposeful strides towards them. “_Cute_.”

The viciousness, the _anger_ in her voice surprised her, but it gave the Liches pause just long enough for her to unmake them with fire, their ice spell dissipating into frosty mist.

They were ash by the time she walked through the space where they’d been. Without an airship she was having to take the long way up and Bolvar wasn’t even doing her the favor of making things interesting. A couple of Liches? One or two very, very unlucky geists? If Bolvar was testing her the only thing he was testing was her _patience_. 

_Arthas_ had an army. He had his generals. And what had Bolvar sent to stop her? Weaklings and minions scarcely worth a second's thought. In hindsight, Jaina thought she should have just used her magic to collapse the entire goddamn citadel into itself and be done with it.

Something large and heavy moved to her left, the ground shaking at its approach. Jaina turned to face it as it roared. She roared _back_.

****

**********

It had been A’sooka’s scream that made Belariss snap, much like the neck of the man who’d been ‘interrogating’ the Draenei.

She hadn’t intended to reassert herself just yet, but it had been impossible for her to watch her wife be tortured. Her decision would have consequences, consequences she’d accept once she got A’sooka out of Icecrown.

Except those consequences had come much sooner than expected; when the Lich King summoned you, it was unwise to disobey.

Bela had left A’sooka in her cell, the key to it hidden in straw with instructions to escape if she didn’t return within the hour. She doubted A’sooka would actually try to leave without her; but a woman could hope.

And yet, when she arrived at the top of the tower to find Bolvar and the Four Horsemen, no punishment came. Even Whitemane seemed content to ignore her, so Bela tried to make herself unnoticeable, since their Master seemed to be otherwise occupied.

Jaina Proudmoore had come to Icecrown.

When the others broke free, Bela felt it, like the breaking of a chain at the back of her mind. Some had merely been waiting for an opportunity, as she had. Others had found their chance as Proudmoore marched through the frozen halls.

Whatever the reason, Bela took the opportunity to position herself nearest the stairs; Whitemane and the others were fast. She would have to be faster, since she knew she couldn’t fight even one of them alone.

A roar broke her out of her thoughts, the sound reverberating on the stiff, chilly wind that swirled around the top of the Citadel. She felt, vibrating in her bones, a heavy, steady beat. 

And then a _massive_ Frost Wyrm soared up from the south side and hovered above them, flanked by a half-dozen of its kin. Belariss remembered this one. A blue dragon recently killed and raised in Stranglethorn, scales still clinging to its frame.

Each beat of its wings shook Bela to her core, but it was no longer the Wyrm that had her attention: It was Jaina Proudmoore sitting atop its back.

Jaina jumped down, landing lightly. The Horsemen stood between her and the Lich King and Belariss made herself as invisible as she could. Something told her to run, some sensible voice in the back of her mind that knew the coming battle was something she was ill prepared to take part in.

But her feet were rooted to the spot.

“I’ll give you points for _style_,” Whitemane said. “Have you considered joining the winning side?”

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” Jaina responded, voice icy. “You always did have questionable taste in men.”

Whitemane looked taken aback, then glanced rather pointedly at the throne, before looking at Jaina again.

Even Belariss knew about Jaina and _Arthas_.

Ice formed in Jaina’s hand, spreading out to a point until it appeared as though she were holding a polished claymore made of ice, arcane energy crackling around the edges and some cold fire flickering inside. From Belariss’s position she could make out a Forsaken sigil on the pommel. 

Perhaps Jaina had accepted her fate. And if so, maybe Bela could accept her own.

Whitemane swung her runeblade in an arc, Jaina stepping to the side and using her iceblade to parry, Whitemane’s scraping along the edge of Jaina’s. The Horseman whipped around, throwing her free hand out. 

Bile exploded out of the ground to Jaina’s right, freezing almost instantly as she dodged to the left. A festering pool formed at her feet and Jaina froze that as well, following that action with a fireball that Whitemane deftly dodged. It spiraled up into the storm that perpetually brewed around the Citadel’s peak and past the Frost Wyrms circling as if in silent judgement.

Then they were within melee range of each other again, weapons ringing against each other, spells of ice and fire, decay and death twisting and writhing around them.

There was more of Sylvanas in Jaina today than Belariss thought possible, and her eyes widened slightly as she caught the smile that played on Jaina’s lips. 

Whitemane’s runeblade spun through the air, clattering to the ground before sliding off and into the abyss. The woman herself hung, suspended in the air from a spear of ice jutting out of the platform. Black blood oozed from her mouth, and she coughed once or twice, rasping. “Oh… everything is so _dark_.”

Jaina stood for a moment, staring at the woman, before reaching out and closing her eyes. Then she started towards Bolvar and the remaining Horsemen, iceblade gripped tightly in her right fist and arcane crackling in her left until it had formed a sort of short blade.

Bela didn’t know exactly what the others would do. Whitemane was easy, predictable, a zealot to the bitter end. Trollbane had always been a mystery to her, but Mograine a part of her still trusted.

Nazgrim, on the other hand … once he chose to serve a master he did not sway from his loyalties. Belariss knew without a doubt that his loyalty was now to Bolvar, and no other.

He reached out first, purple-black energy coiling around Jaina’s throat; not to cut off any air she didn’t need, but to strangle her ability to cast spells. But then there was a thunderous whoosh of wind, and blue-hued jaws clamped down around Nazgrim. 

The Frost Wyrm carried him up, and up and up, until Belariss could no longer hear his screams.

At least until his screams echoed as he fell past the Citadel to the ground far below.

She felt a snort of amusement at the back of her mind, before Bolvar’s voice echoed through the sudden silence. “_Leave us_.”

Belariss didn’t wait to see what the two remaining Horsemen did.

****

**********

He’d been good once, Jaina thought. A good man, and a friend. But they always were, weren’t they? Good men. Friends. Family.

But there was always something inside them, something that the Lich King took and twisted. Something that the _world_ took and twisted, like it had with her, like it had with Sylvanas.

Broken, warped, shattered dolls, all of them. It made her want to scream, or cry. Easy enough to do the former, an act of the gods for the latter. The rage built and it built and Jaina understood Sylvanas better than she ever had.

Maybe, if she stopped and let herself talk to her wife… No, a part of Jaina knew that was what she needed but she was too spiteful and angry for that just yet.

Jaina had bigger problems to worry about right now, one eye on the Lich King and the other on his surviving Horsemen as they very slowly left. Once she was alone with Bolvar and the Wyrms still circling above, she gave him her full attention.

“_I think Kirygosa likes you, Lady Proudmoore._” Bolvar’s voice was a deep rumble, reminding Jaina of gravel in a quarry. He leaned forward, resting his right arm on his knee. “_You must share a penchant for dramatic entrances._”

“And a severe dislike for Kings who’ve overstayed their welcomes.”

Bolvar stood, a towering figure, skin scarred like freshly cooled lava, his eyes a pale orange inside the Helm of Ner'zhul. He stepped down from the throne, until he was on an even level with Jaina. “_Is that it, then? Are we to replace a King with a Queen, terrible yet fair?_”

Jaina stared him down, before casually throwing a glance over the edge, and the army that waited below. “You let me in. Practically held the door for me. Why?”

“_Did you ever wonder what they told me? Did they ever _tell_ you what happened the day Arthas fell? Or has dear Anduin kept it to himself?_ ”

Most of those who’d been there that day were dead. Even Anduin and Sylvanas had, like her, received information secondhand. “Expressing regret, Fordragon? You’re well beyond second thoughts.” She stared up at him, some of her anger lifting. “It’s not your fault. That helm, that throne, it could corrupt anyone. It’s not your fault you became this.”

“_Is it not? I accepted, even though I knew what the bargain would cost. To spare the world what should happen should the Scourge run free. I am responsible for my own actions._” He tilted his head, and smiled at her. “_Are you_?”

Jaina’s sword struck Bolvar square in the chest. He staggered back, then dropped to one knee. Staring up at her, he reached up and tugged the Helm off. For the first time in two decades, Bolvar Fordragon looked upon the world with his own eyes.

The Helm clattered to the ground, skidding on the ice until it came to rest at the base of the throne. Bolvar tried to speak, that echo gone. “Jai...na….”

“Yes, my friend?” The echo in Jaina’s voice remained.

“It was _all_ a lie.” He slumped forward until he was prone at Jaina’s feet.

She stared at him for a long time, the wind whipping her hair around her face, her hand slacking around the hilt of her iceblade. Then she lifted her head, tightened her fingers and stepped over Bolvar’s body. The ice in her hands cracked, the energy within the blade crackling as it elongated until it had become a staff, shimmering ice and glittering runes with a pulsing violet orb at the tip.

The sound of her boots was a dull, faded echo, heavy in her ears as she approached the steps to the throne. Her boot nudged the Helm, causing it to clank against the ice. Jaina stopped, looking down at it, at the eye slits that stared back at her as if in challenge. What now, Jaina? Did you think it would be that simple?

Are you finally ready to face the consequences of your actions, for once?

Kneeling, Jaina reached for the helm, before stopping herself. Even with gloves on, it was a dangerous prospect.She stared at it a moment longer, before she cast a spell. A shaft grew straight up underneath the helm, lifting it until it was eye level with the throne. 

As she ascended, she murmured a spell, the ice that made up the throne shifting and changing until the throne of Icecrown had become something new and different, elegant and sweeping like the wings of a swan.

Above her, Kirygosa let out an earth-shattering roar, sweeping her wings back as she dove towards the platform and the throne. She landed like a whisper, in a beautifully twisted human form, with sallow skin and exposed bone along the left size of her jaw and eye. She stood to Jaina’s left, and inclined her head.

Jaina ran her fingers along the back of the throne. Voices whispered at the edge of her consciousness, a thousand questions running through her mind. She glanced back at the Helm, almost resting her hand upon it before she again caught herself.

And then she sat on the throne, leaning back and crossing her legs, staff in hand. 

Her other hand itched, and her eyes moved back to the Helm. She knew the price for what she'd done. That there'd be no heroic paladin to take the burden this time. She should have understood the moment the Scourge let her pass; why else would the Lich King so easily allow her near? It was always the same, trading in a host for one more cunning, more desperate—more powerful. Crueller. She’d let him draw her to this precipice, and if she lacked the willpower to step back from it now—to find someone else, anyone else, someone less corruptible—how could she expect to hold the will of Ner’zhul at bay even as long as Bolvar had managed?

But. But but _but_ it should _always_ have been _her_. The duty should have fallen to her, should have been hers and hers alone. Arthas had been her fault and so had everything that had happened since. If only, if _only_...

_There must always be a Lich King._


	15. Pawns or Martyrs

**Part III**

**Six Days to Zero Hour**

From her perch atop a Dalaran rooftop, Valeera had a clear view of most of the city. The day was cloudy, quiet and a little gloomy, rain threatening on the horizon. Somehow, that suited Valeera’s mood.

Movement drew her eye to a riderless dragon flying away from the city and veering north, bronze scales shaded a dull brown in the shadow of the storm.

“Anything interesting up here?”

Valeera barely reacted as Alleria settled onto the roof next to her. The Void Elf drew up one of her legs, resting an arm on it as she studied Valeera. 

“Now there is.” Her smile wasn’t reflected anywhere else but her lips. “Am I being that obvious?”

“Not to most people, but a Worgen rogue pointed me in this direction.”

“Did they now.” Valeera glanced down towards the streets, knowing better than to expect to actually see anything out of the ordinary. She sighed, then looked at Alleria again. “Can I tell you something? Something that not too many people know and you’d be the first outside of a very small circle.” She wanted to tell Liadrin, too, but felt like Alleria might be the better first option. 

“Worried I’d judge?”

Valeera shrugged her shoulders, leaning back on her hands. “You strike me as someone willing to do just about anything if it meant righting a wrong, or protecting the people you care about.”

Alleria’s eyes swirled like a moonless night as she gave Valeera a pointed look.

Deciding ‘that’s probably a Windrunner trait’ would be the quickest way to the doghouse, Valeera shifted so that she was leaning towards Alleria. “Now that we’re done galavanting through temples, I’ve been keeping myself occupied.”

“Who have you been killing?”

Snorting, Valeera tapped her finger on a roof tile. “What I like to call the Society of Old Fucks Well Past their Prime. Daelin loyalists.”

“You mean there’s a whole movement?” Alleria’s ears twitched back against her head, the thought clearly distressing to her.

“_Was_ a whole movement. I got them all and a few of Ashvane’s for good measure. I think they were using the Daelin crowd as their in to eliminate the Proudmoore line entirely.”

“Those faultlines are almost as old as Daelin’s,” Alleria observed. Her ears returned to a more neutral position and she rested her hand next to Valeera’s. “Why would you think I’d judge you for that?”

“They had nothing to do with the Council of Six murders. That investigation is proving tougher.” Valeera looked down at their hands, fighting the urge to bring Alleria into the small circle that knew of the Uncrowned, and _those_ fault lines. “Depends on how you feel the difference between execution and murder is.”

“They _probably_ should have been given a trial, but you’re not going to find much argument from me in this,” Alleria promised.

“You’re not exactly known for keeping your temper in check.”

“Keep it up and I’ll take that back.”

Valeera grinned at her. “That’s more like it.”

“So if the Council of Six isn’t related to Jaina, do you think other leaders are at risk?”

“You’re always at risk,” Valeera answered truthfully. “But I don’t think anyone is stupid enough to destabilize the delicate power structures governing the Compact and Covenant while the world is busy fighting the Scourge.”

“Anyone except Azshara maybe. She can back up her actions with enough power to fight whoever is left standing at the end.”

“It’s crossed my mind that she may be biding her time while we fight this war.” Valeera’s expression darkened, though she chose not to offer any thoughts on the subject.

They sat in awkward silence, until Valeera got up and jumped off the roof. To her relief and disappointment, Alleria didn’t try to follow her. She liked Windrunner, but despite her familiarity and love of the shadows there was something _offputting_ about her. Something that Valeera both wanted to understand better, and feared trying to understand.

The shadows she stuck to were the kind of darkness she knew very well. They cloaked and concealed her and had guided her path and her daggers for decades. They were as much a part of her as her lungs or her heart.

The twilight within Alleria wasn’t the same. It was something else entirely—and yet that was as alluring as it was concerning. 

And they were in direct contrast to the woman Valeera found herself stalking. Liadrin burned like the sun, though that hadn’t always been the case. Valeera mused on that. The light, the shadow, and the in between.

She caught Liadrin in an alley near the crafting district, slipping out of the darkness and nearly losing her head for her troubles.

“Valeera!” Liadrin sheathed her sword. “Are you _trying_ to get killed?”

“Just needed some excitement, near decapitation does it for me these days.” She grinned, stalking close, until she had Liadrin corned. Valeera leaned her hand on the wall above Liadrin’s left shoulder and leaned in. 

“What do you want?” Liadrin deadpanned, holding Valeera’s gaze.

“Just wanted to chat.”

“There are easier ways to do that.”

“Yes,” Valeera agreed. “But they’re not as fun.”

Liadrin didn’t seem particularly _bothered_ by her position, as she tilted her head to the right and favored Valeera with a smile. “Then talk, I’ve got places to be.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about Alleria.”

The Paladin’s demeanor shifted immediately, if almost imperceptibly. Her shoulders and jaw tensed, her eyes narrowed slightly and her lips twitched. “What about her?”

“I’m worried about her. Between the Void constantly in her ear and various leadership turning up dead…”

“She can take care of herself.” The tension eased out of Liadrin’s shoulders, but only just a little bit. “But somehow I think you’re interested in more than just her safety.”

Valeera raised her eyebrows. “And you’re not?”

“I never said that.”

“I’ve seen the two of you together—”

“And I’ve seen the two of you together. And yet here you are, trying to get your knee between my legs.”

Valeera’s mouth snapped shut, her cheeks turning the color of her lips as she shifted her knee away.

“Maybe,” Liadrin said, slipping under Valeera’s arm and then patting her on her backside. “We all need to talk about this like adults.”

“Talk about what?” Valeera managed to say, her rhythm thrown off.

“Sharing.”

Valeera stared at the space where Liadrin had recently occupied, until someone cleared their throat.

Slowly, she turned around to see Tess Greymane leaning against a wall, an amused expression on her face. “Wow. Smooth.”

“Shut up.” Valeera rolled her shoulders. “I was hoping to see you anyway. I need to talk to you about your father.”

**********

Of all the scheduled events in his hectic life, Anduin looked forward to the weekly lunch with Baine the most. He was, perhaps, the closest friend that Anduin had.If nothing else came out of the Compact, being able to just be himself around the Tauren Chieftain made it all worth it.

Sure, he had Genn and Velen, and to an extent Jaina, though he remained unsure how to approach her at the moment; but all three were more like mentors. Uncles and a big sister.

Baine was one of the few people Anduin could connect to without feeling like he was somehow encroaching on an adult conversation. Almost thirty-five years old and he still felt like he’d never stopped being a teenager. 

But that was something to unpack never, as Anduin walked with Baine through Stormwind Keep towards the dedicated Horde portal room. 

“Do you remember the day I defeated you all at tug-of -war?” Baine glanced down at him, a fond smile on his face.

“How could I forget? Took me an hour just to wash all the mud off.”

Baine’s grin only grew. “I’ve been considering making that a formal event. A contest, if you will, though primarily aimed at children. One champion versus a dozen, perhaps.”

“Baine, the rules are we don’t talk politics during or after lunch,” Anduin reminded him.

“This isn’t politics, this is entertainment. Something to consider once we’ve dealt with the Scourge, at least.”

Still, Anduin could see how Windrunner might turn this _into_ politics. Thinking of Sylvanas made him think of Jaina again and he frowned. “Speaking of the Scourge, I’ve heard disturbing rumors.”

“We both see the same reports.” Baine stopped at the entrance to the portal room. “The Wrathgate blown apart and the Scourge pulling back and massing near the Citadel.”

“And Jaina last seen in Dragonblight.” There were implications there that Anduin’s mind kept landing on. Implications that made his heart turn to ice. At least he had Baine to warm it back up a bit.

“You don’t think—”

“I think we need to prepare for the worst and hope for the best.” Anduin replied. He squeezed Baine’s arm. “If the stalemate continues, we’re going to need a new strategy.”

Baine looked thoughtful. “I agree.”

“Now it’s my turn to break the rules.” Anduin smiled ruefully. “Pass my regards to Sylvanas and ask her if she would be willing to hold a war strategy meeting in… two days?”

“I think we can manage that.” Baine clapped his hand on Anduin’s shoulder, then turned and walked into the room. He gave a nod to one of the mages, and took the offered portal to Thunder Bluff.

Anduin stood watching for a few minutes before he turned in the direction of his own rooms. As he walked, familiar footsteps dogged him, and he let himself in before stepping aside. “Just come inside.”

Wrathion grinned at him as he swept into Anduin’s chambers. “It’s like you sensed I was there. I’m touched.”

“If you didn’t want me to know you were here, I wouldn’t,” Anduin pointed out. He strode across to his liquor cabinet, pulling a bottle and two glasses out. 

The door closed, seemingly of its own accord. In the light from the candles, the shadows behind Wrathion greatly resembled dark, flickering wings. He stalked forward, teeth glinting. “Lunch dates while a war is on? It reminds me of old times, our debates on Pandaria while the world reeled. _Simpler_ times, before the Prince became the King.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sounded jealous.” Anduin held out a glass, which the dragon took.

Ignoring that, Wrathion sniffed the drink and took a sip. “I am very glad to see you’ve finally _remembered_. How long did it take for that which was all but forgotten in the frozen wastes to thaw? And yet, how unprepared were you all...”

“You could have just _mentioned_ the Scourge when we last spoke.” Anduin studied Wrathion over his glass. “But that would be asking too much, wouldn’t it? No, better to watch us twist in the wind than offer useful advice or warning.”

“Perhaps I just prefer to watch you put that glorious little mind of yours to work.” Wrathion leaned his hip against a table, his drink untouched past that first curious sniff and sip. “Tell me something, my King. What happens next? When the Scourge is beaten back again and Bolvar lays shattered at your feet? Who will be the chosen sacrifice?”

Anduin was silent for the longest time as he considered Wrathion’s words. When Arthas had been defeated, Bolvar had sacrificed himself to keep the Scourge at bay. In hindsight, it had only been a matter of time before he became corrupted; even a good man could only hold out so long with the influence of such evil a constant weight.

Who then would be next, and for how long would they last? And could he possibly ask anyone to take that on. The answer was obvious, in hindsight; he would do it, so no one else would have to. But they’d have to find someone to replace him. Perhaps even sooner, rather than later. Pass the torch before the corruption became too much to bear and another war ravaged Azeroth.

“You’d last a few years at least.” Wrathion suggested. He stepped closer, until he was almost nose to nose with Anduin. “Longer than Fordragon, I suspect. But it would be a waste. Your destiny lies _elsewhere_, Anduin. Another place. Another time, at the head of a different army.”

There were eons in Wrathion’s eyes, despite his young age. If Anduin was a child in the eyes of the near-immortal races, what did that make the Black Dragon Prince? He looked the man, but he was impetuous and impatient, and spoke in riddles that Anduin thought Wrathion himself didn’t fully comprehend. “You’ve seen this, have you? You’ve always had either a gift of foresight, or pure luck.”

Wrathion’s eyes flashed red, and he smiled again as Anduin resisted the urge to bring his hand to protect his throat. “I will tell you what I’ve seen. Scourge, flowing across the land like a wave, and at the head of this onslaught, a daughter of the sea. Who, then, shall replace Jaina Proudmoore when she joins her tragic love?”

**********

So maybe sneaking into Icecrown to gather intel hadn’t been the smartest idea Liadrin ever had.

She’d intended a simple scouting mission, to determine the strength of the Scourge and why they’d all retreated. As a bonus, it would help Liadrin clear her mind of the chaos that Valeera and Alleria so often left it in.

It had gone well at first. Most of the outlying defenses had been abandoned, with only a few flying scouts and a large Frostwyrm to avoid. Easy enough, even for a Paladin in full plate. But the closer to the Citadel she got, the thicker the armies of the Scourge became until they were like an ocean of death and decay. It was the sound that disturbed her the most; rather, the complete silence, save for the wind and the occasional rustly of fabric or clatter of bone and metal.

Like they were waiting for something.

She turned south, hoping to find another way to enter the Citadel. There were numerous caverns, or Liadrin could perhaps scale a cliff, though she’d rather not try.

Something hard slammed into her shoulder, sending her reeling and crashing to the ground. Before she had the chance to pick herself up, a large boney foot kicked her in the stomach. Her eyes and hands glowed as a shockwave of light rippled out from her. Clear of her attacker, Liadrin got to her feet and drew her weapon and shield.

It seemed as though she’d gotten close enough to disturb the Scourge. A rotting Vyrkul towered over her, and surrounding him were dozens of lesser Scourge of varying degrees of decomposition. Liadrin rolled her shoulders and in true Horde fashion, rapped her sword on her shield. “Come on!”

A geist leapt out from the left and she bashed it down with her shield and spun around, parrying a blow from the Vrykul. A battle was like a dance. Parry and strike, block and twist. She called down the light once or twice, though conserved most of her power in case she was actually challenged by something. Old fashioned martial prowess would see her through this without breaking a sweat and Liadrin had spent part of her life walking away from the Light, so she’d had to rely on her strength in the past. She was no stranger to this.

Still, even the strongest warrior could be worn down over time, and every time she cleared a wave of Scourge there would be more waiting for her. 

An arrow zinged past her head, striking another Vyrkul in the throat. Six more in quick succession brought him down as Alleria skidded down the hill on the body of what had once been a dwarf many years ago. She reached Liadrin and lept off, landing next to her. “You’re a hard woman to find.”

“I was trying to be sneaky.” Liadrin replied, eyes searching for any way out. The only place she could see was a crevice that, maybe, possibly, was the entrance to a cavern.

Alleria stared at Liadrin, then at the hordes of extremely agitated Scourge that were rushing at them. “You call this sneaky?”

“This way,” Liadrin charged towards the crevice, glancing back to see Alleria on her heels. She squeezed through a crack in the stone with somewhat less ease than the other elf did.

The Scourge crashed into the rock like a tsunami, causing the rock to crack and shudder. Liadrina pushed farther through, following something like a breeze. The crevice shook again, and again, and then Liadrin popped out into a small cavern just as the crevice started to crumble in on them. There was a tumult, a cacophony of sound and crashing rock as Liadrin pulled Alleria in and beneath her shield. The closeness made the Light thrash and writhe and Liadrin could sense the Void within Alleria reacting in much the same way.

She grit her teeth, focusing the Light on protecting them from collapsing stone and shoring up her shield.

Almost as soon as it began, it had stopped.

A pebble bounced somewhere in the darkness. Liadrin gathered up her strength and pushed with her shield. Rock and dirt cascaded off to either side. She held up her hand, calling the Light to illuminate their surroundings.

The crevice was completely buried, but their positioning had protected them from the worst of the cave-in, and Liadrin’s shield from the rest of it. The cavern was roughly ten meters tall, about as wide and half as long. As she turned slowly around, Alleria shied away.

That simple action, while understandable, made Liadrin’s chest clench, and she closed her fist, snuffing out the light. “Are you all right.”

“Nothing broken but my pride.” 

Liadrin nodded, then remembered they were in the dark. “We need to figure out another source of light.”

“I can bear it,” Alleria assured her.

Frowning, Liadrin groped through the dark until she found what she hoped was Alleria’s leg. The Void Elf inhaled sharply, and Liadrin sat down next to her. Her stomach writhed and she clenched her teeth until the feeling passed. “You should not have to.”

“I don’t think we have much of a choice.” 

Alleria’s shoulder brushed Liadrin’s, sending a shock of pain burning through her like fire. She gasped, though she couldn’t quite be sure if the sensation was unwelcome or not. Once she was certain her voice was even, she replied. “Let’s take a moment to catch our breath, then we can figure out a way out of here.”

When there was no immediate response, Liadrin turned towards the woman next to her. “Alleria?”

“I’m okay.” Alleria sounded a little breathless.

“It hurts to touch me, doesn’t it.”

“Doesn’t it hurt you?”

“Yes.”

Alleria didn’t respond right away, and Liadrin wished she could see her face. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking or what she might be feeling. “I lost my husband because of this. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t touch me. We could have… worked through that. Dealt with the pain. But he couldn’t even _look_ at me. After _everything_ we’d been through, after the Second War and then the war against the Legion, he couldn’t look at me. Wouldn’t. It was like I was the _ enemy_. Like I was corrupted.”She gave a short, bitter laugh. “And I _am_ corrupted. So much for marriage vows.”

Liadrin had never been married, so she couldn’t say she related. But she’d attended enough weddings to understand where Alleria was coming from. What must it have felt like to watch the person you loved pull away from you; or worse, push you away and decry your very existence? “The path you chose was for a noble reason.”

Bracing herself, she located and took Alleria’s hand. Even through the gloves she could feel the heat, though if that was the war between their natures or something else it wasn’t immediately obvious. “Friends are worth burning for. And if you love someone, so much more. There are too many people on Azeroth who have done the same for me to judge you for it. I’m sorry Turaylon couldn’t understand that.”

“I keep telling myself he would have, a thousand years ago. Before the Naaru. Before the Dark Portal. But I’m fooling myself …” Alleria exhaled. “The Turaylon I fought with in Outland would have come to the same conclusion. He would have given up…”

There was a rawness in Alleria’s voice, but Liadrin couldn’t fault her that. They’d been together for millenia, and she doubted that it would be that easy to get over in even a _decade_. Slowly, she tugged her gauntlet off, then did the same to Alleria’s glove. Before she could think better of it, she grasped Alleria’s hand. The burning was instantaneous, pulling the breath from Liadrin’s lungs and making Alleria cry out in pain and shock. But Liadrin refused to let go.

It burned like ice, a cold fire that spread through her veins and leeched its way into her heart. Pain exploded behind her eyes and in her temple and it felt like thin, icy tendrils were crawling beneath her skin. Tears ran down her cheeks like glacial rivers. Was it a minute? Less? More? Liadrin lost count of her heartbeats before Alleria pulled her hand away.

The relief was immediate, a rush like a healing draught that made Liadrin’s head spin.

“What the hell, Liadrin?”

“Turalyon,” Liadrin replied, once she’d regained her breath and could form words. “Was an _idiot_.”

The world was at war, they were probably trapped under Icecrown Citadel, and there was a legion of Undead on top of them; so she kissed Alleria, and burned.


	16. Timelines

**Four Days to Zero Hour**

Thunder greeted Jaina when she stepped out of the portal. The sky was a sickly shade of green, but rain was only a threat for the time being. Jaina surveyed the view before her, the ruins of Lordaeron that still lay crumbling where they’d been abandoned almost two decades ago. Even from here she could smell the Blight, Sylvanas’s last ‘fuck you’ to anyone who might seek to claim the city.

It would be another century before anyone could try. And they should, Jaina thought. It would be difficult, and there would be those on both sides who’d object, but they should bring the Forsaken home; and the living descendents of the nation as well.

A smile twisted across her face as she imagined Greymane’s reaction should she bring such an idea up, if only to tell him in no uncertain terms that Lordaeron did not belong to either Gilneas _or_ Stormwind. 

Before her mind could turn to the problem of cleaning the Blight and making the city livable and unlivable both, Jaina forced herself to focus on the reason she’d come.

On a hill to the south of the Undercity, nestled in a grove of pine trees, was a grave. It was a low mound, surrounded by grass and flowers and yet strangely barren itself, as though living things kept a distance from the body that lay within. 

Jaina approached, coming to a stop at the foot of it. She leaned on her runestaff, regarding the grave for many long moments. Thunder rolled in the distance, flashes of lightning the only real illumination besides the dull green glow of Blight to the north.

“Arthas,” Jaina said, her voice echoing through the trees. Here in this moment she found herself unable to capture the emotions that had led her to burying the corpse of a man who’d stopped being the man she loved. She could barely remember how it felt to love him, the way she loved Sylvanas.

The irony of the directions her heart took her were not lost on her, as irrelevant as that was right now. 

“I have so many questions. Questions you probably couldn’t provide the answers to even were you here. But what if you _were_ here?” A dangerous question. Jaina’s staff glowed in eerie, repeating patterns and her eyes flickered the same. “What if I brought you _back_?”

She tilted her head, and like she was discussing the finer points of a magical exercise, continued. “Would you be Arthas? Would you be my friend from childhood, the first man I ever loved? You weren’t perfect, Arthas. Clearly there was something inside you that made it easier for the Legion to twist you and turn you into a monster. But something like that resides in all of us. From the most valiant and faithful wielder of the light to the darkest depths of shadow.”

Her fingers tightened around the runestaff. “It’s just a matter of degrees, isn’t it? How far one has to fall.” Voice cracking, Jaina whispered. “I’ve fallen _so_ far. I found the bottom once, in the heart of that crater in Theramore. And then I found a way out of it, with a little help from an unlikely source. And yet, here I am again. And like Theramore, it was my fault.”

Jaina’s eyes followed the shape of the grave, the gentle slope so devoid of vegetation. “If I brought you back, you wouldn’t be him. You’d be something _else_. Whatever you were before. Whomever you could have been, that’s lost now.”

Rain started to fall, droplets landing on her head and splattering on the grave. 

“And if that is the case, what does that mean for me?”

**********

There’d been a time when one of the high points of Sylvanas’s week was making the boy king quake in his oversized boots. Oh, he made a passable effort at disguising his discomfort and fear, but it was obvious to one who dealt in that currency on a daily basis.

But even the smallest runt could grow into an adult. Anduin Wrynn was no longer a cub and it was much more difficult to unnerve him. Sylavams could respect that.

She’d never tell him, but she respected that. 

If nothing else she was grateful for the distraction. With Jaina gods knew where and the war at a stalemate, Sylvanas was ready to discuss what to do next, to end the war and remove Northrend as a threat entirely.

Maybe it would be best to sink the whole continent, just to be sure. Or perhaps better if they could... “Pity we dismantled the Vindicaar’s weapons…”

“I’m sorry?”

Anduin looked up from a map, raising his eyebrows at Sylvanas. She merely shrugged. “Nothing of consequence, King Wrynn. Just some musings on _landscaping_.”

His expression remained dubious but he gave her a polite nod. “Of course.”

“Speaking of landscaping.” Sylvanas stepped around the table, moving closer to Anduin and clasping her hands behind her back. Sure, he was harder to unnerve, but she was still going to _try_. Sylvanas needed to get some entertainment from her unlife. “I’ve been thinking of a lovely little spot in Northrend to put a _crater_.”

“Leveling Icecrown Citadel would make me feel a lot better about a lot of things too, but first we have to get there. And then we’d have to figure out what to do about the Scourge.” Anduin looked up at her, holding his ground in a way that made it impossible to tell if she was managing to disturb him. 

Damn. At least he’d only asked once about Jaina. She’d given him the kind of look that could have frozen steel and he had opted not to push the matter. Jaina was … complicated, and Sylvanas was giving her space, at least for now.

Sylvanas merely inclined her head in his direction. “Am I to guess that you’re volunteering to wear the helm?”

To his credit, he didn’t deny it. “Am I being that obvious? We could spend hours debating the finer points of who should be the jailer of the Scourge, when that time could be better spent creating a system to replace the Lich King every few years. Before the corruption spreads too far, as it did with Bolvar.”

There was merit to the idea. While she was loath to accept the idea of any Lich King, the Scourge had only been a pest until they had most decidedly become a threat. It stung that the boy suggested it, and it stung that he was right about him being a prime candidate. Anduin might even last longer than Bolvar had. 

“You are talking about training sacrificial lambs to become Lich Kings. A new host every decade in perpetuity.” She stared at him, a smile spreading across her lips. “How _ruthless_. To ruin the lives of young champions and heroes, a thousand thousand times over. I’m impressed, I never thought you had it in you!”

“I would have thought you’d have objections.”

“What I have is a counterpoint, Wrynn.” Sylvanas stepped up to him so suddenly he stumbled a step and she took a half second to savor that. “Let us make up a champion. Someone who is noble at heart, with a strong sense of self. Someone who has the desire to help people, who can hold onto the ideas of hope and peace. Now take that, and twist it. And imagine the full force of the Scourge brought down onto a single city. And then another. And then another. With our forces spread out, none could stand against such precision strikes. Imagine such a fallen hero, with—”

Pain lanced through Sylvanas, suddenly and inexplicably. It started in her core, deep within the center of her chest and radiated outward through the dessicated remains of her veins. Not like a heart attack, but a familiar kind of pain, like her soul was being flayed. It rippled back, collapsing in on itself before exploding outward again in an agonizing pulse that repeated a half dozen times over before it finally subsided. If Sylvanas could still draw breath, she’d have run out of it.

Anduin loomed over her and she wondered how he’d gotten taller than her before she realized she was laying on the floor. Shoving him roughly away, she grabbed onto the table and pulled herself up. Her limbs fought her every inch of the way, but Sylvanas refused to show any more weakness than she’d inadvertently been forced to show to the king.

“Warchief—“

“Do not say a word.” Sylvanas straightened her shoulders, staring down at the map in contemplation. Then without so much as fanfare or thought, she walked past the High King and out of the Hold.

**********

Jaina had a lot of time to _think_. The only sound up here was an icy wind and the occasional beat of Frostwyrm wings. They circled the Citadel by the hundreds now, while far below, tens of thousands of Scourge massed. It was as though Bolvar’s last command had been to wait, and so wait they did. What Jaina didn’t know was how long she had before that wore off, and the Scourge turned their attention to destruction.

If they even did anything at all.

It made Jaina sad to think about. Every one of the Scourge had once been a person. A person with hopes and dreams and personality, who’d thought and felt and lived. And now all that was left were empty shells devoid of conscious thought.

But hadn’t the Forsaken been like that once, too?

If Sylvanas could free them, maybe Jaina could do the same.

Her eyes turned to where the Helm still rested, perched atop a shaft of ice. Slowly, she turned towards it, considering her options. If the Scourge needed to be controlled, that was the means to do it. But what if she used the helm only briefly? Just enough to give them a command. To _free_ them.

Jaina blinked and realized she was standing next to it, her hand reaching out, fingers almost close enough to brush. She stepped back, lifting her hand to look at it and shaking her head to clear the sudden fog. 

“Kiry?”

“Yes, Lady?” The Frostwyrm materialized from somewhere to Jaina’s left. If she had thoughts about what had just transpired, she kept them to herself.

“Are there any Scourge elsewhere in the world? Or have they all pulled back to Icecrown?”

“There are a few isolated pockets,” Kiry replied. Jaina could see her tongue moving through the rotted half of her face. “But they’re gone still as well.”

“Do you know what they’re waiting for?”

Kiry merely shrugged. “A command, I think. The vast majority aren’t like the Wyrms or the Death Knights. They weren’t given agency by the Lich King. So they don’t know what to do without orders.”

So she’d been right. Jaina frowned, leaning on her staff and studying Kiry. “What do you think will happen, without a Lich King?”

Confusion crossed Kiry’s features. “There must always be a Lich King.”

“But what if there wasn’t?”

“Chaos? Death on a massive scale?”

“That isn’t massive?” Jaina gestured down towards the ground. “Could you imagine what I could do with an army like that?”

Yes, she could take that army and point it at any enemy she wanted. She could obliterate Azshara, crush the remnants of the Legion, wash over world after world and cleanse the universe of all that plagued it until, at least, peace reigned. Nothing would _ever_ threaten Azeroth again.

“Lady?”

Jaina blinked, returning to the present. She worked her jaw, clenching her fists as she returned to the Throne and took a seat. “It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me.” That was a different voice, and Jaina looked for the source. Standing at the stairs was a short figure. The figure stepped out of the shadows, eyes a brilliant shade of gold. “Do you have any idea how many people I put on that throne before I realized it should have been you all along?”

Jaina stared at the gnome, confusion warring with anger until she suddenly realized who she was staring at. “...Chromie?”

“The one and only!” She glanced up at Kiry as she strolled past her, then returned her attention to Jaina. Chromie looked her up and down approvingly. 

“Okay this is _much_ better than last time.” She tapped her chin and mumbled. “Or was it the time before that or two times before that one? That was _really_ bad…Not as bad as those times with Nathanos or the murloc, now _those_ were a disaster…but anyway.”

Jaina gestured with a hand, as if to say ‘please, proceed.’

“Sorry, sorry, it all gets jumbled up sometimes and I can never remember if I’m meeting someone next week or three years ago. You know how it is.”

“Can’t say that I do.” Jaina leaned forward, the glow of her eyes narrowing to points. Chromie might be rambling but there was enough there for Jaina to start drawing conclusions and she didn’t like the conclusions she was coming to. “Let’s cut to the chase and why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

“It was always supposed to be you.” Chromie pointed at her, and at the throne. “You, here. But not… earlier you. Not the apprentice, not the Lord Admiral, none of the Jainas in between. I tried all of them, and a hundred more people besides. But it’s you. Here, as you are in all your unliving glory.”

Jaina rubbed her temple. “I hate time travel.”

“Not really time travel, more like alternate history.” Chromie shrugged. “But we’re here now.”

“But why _me_? Why here, why now?”

“It was Sylvanas, originally,” Chromie explained. “But the war went differently. She made different choices, she didn’t have you to temper her.”

“Sylvanas was the _Lich King?!_”

“I didn’t say that, I just said it was Sylvanas.”

Exhaling in frustration, Jaina pondered what it would be like to strangle a bronze dragon. “Get to the _point_.”

“You keep asking the question. What happens if there’s no Lich King? And there are as many answers as times you’ve asked that question. I’ve seen hints, similarities between histories and timelines and I can only guess at which one the right answer is, but it’s a pretty good guess and if I’m right you already know the answer. You’ve been thinking about it.”

Jaina looked at the Helm, her hands itching to touch it. “And if we’re wrong?”

“Well, it’ll be easier to kill you the next time I think. Actually it was a lot easier to do than I thought it would be, except I’d expected that to happen like… ten years ago or something.”

Sadness suddenly welled up within Jaina’s chest. “So I don’t have any choice? Is there no timeline where I can just be happy?”

“You always have a choice Jaina. And there have been some. But this one, to save it, certain events needed to happen. And if all goes well, you’ll get your good ending. It’s just, in any good story, a good ending needs to be earned.”

Chromie was right about one thing; Jaina had been thinking about what to do, and she’d already come to a decision. It might be a decision she’d regret, and a decision the whole world would regret. Either way, there’d be no turning back. “Can you show me? One of those timelines?”

“Which one?”

Jaina opened her mouth, but no words came out because she _didn’t_ know where to start. Was there a timeline without the Scourge and Legion? With or without Arthas? Without a Lich King? With Theramore intact? What about one where she was with Sylvanas and nothing bad ever happened? There were a thousand points in her life where a different outcome might have led to something good. Jaina’s voice broke. “I… don’t know.”

“I’ll give you the highlights,” Chromie said understandingly. 

Like a veil lifting, Jaina’s vision shifted. She could see, in flashes and shifting images, other lives. 

Arthas in the eyes of her son. And then a flash, her father surviving and Theramore joining the Horde. In the next vision, the Legion never came and she got to finish her studies and eventually lead Dalaran. One where she never left Kul Tiras. Another with the face of her daughter as she wed a Kaldorei priestess. A strange world with one moon and a beautiful Queen of ice and snow. A Third War where she and Sylvanas fell in love fighting the Scourge together. And much more recently, surviving the attack at her mother’s funeral.

And a dozen more besides.

There was never more than a glimpse, no way of knowing what else happened in those worlds, the kind of thing she thrived on; no dive into the politics and state of the world that surely would be different and would likely forever remain in her mind as unanswered questions.

Moments after it started, it was over. Jaina blinked her eyes, dry as they were, feeling tears that could not be shed.

“The future from here, for you… is up to you.” Chromie looked at her, hopeful and yet wary. She hadn’t shown any of those bad endings, and Jaina knew better than to ask to see them.

Jaina looked from Chromie, to Kiry, and then stared up at the frigid sky. 

It should _always_ have been _her_. The duty should have fallen to her, should have been hers and hers alone. Her fault, and her responsibility… 

But better late than never. Slowly, decisively, Jaina rose from the frozen throne, and reached for the helm.

*********

There was no way out. Alleria had accepted that hours ago. The cave-in had blocked the only exit to the cavern and as far as they’d searched there’d been nothing save a thin crack that ran up far out of sight of any light either of them could produce.

So at least they wouldn’t suffocate. 

She’d had, briefly, the thought that maybe they could call for help, but the radio Ravenwing had provided for her an eternity ago had not survived the battle and cave-in. Considering the Goblin design it was a miracle it hadn’t exploded.

Between searching for an exit and then the proximity of Liadrin and that burning fire that seared through her veins, Alleria was exhausted. It was probably something they needed to _talk_ about. Liadrin made her feel things she hadn’t in years; but so did Valeera. Valeera, however, didn’t hurt to touch.

Yet Alleria wasn’t entirely sure she minded that pain. It had been an entirely literal definition of ‘searing kiss.’

“We’re going to have to dig our way out,” Liadrin said. The silence braking almost startled Alleria.

“What about that idea I had?”

“Putting out enough Light to draw the attention of someone would probably kill you.”

“But—“

“And that’s assuming anyone is looking for us, and capable of sensing that to begin with.”

“Well, if you’re going to kill me with the light I can think of much more pleasurable ways to go about it.” Her lips still burned, and the heat was worse the more she thought about it and if they weren’t trapped like this Alleria might just have seen exactly how much Light she could take.

“You know, I once read a story like this. Only it was Jaina and Sylvanas stuck in the elevator in Grommash Hold.”

Alleria blanched. “That’s my _sister_!”

“There’s an entire underground writer’s guild about them, and others.”

She couldn’t tell if Liadrin was teasing her or not, but she _sounded_ amused. Alleria tried to push the thoughts of her sister out of her mind. “And this is something you’re aware of?”

“I’ve got a _really_ popular Wrynnhoof novella in circulation.”

Alleria knocked Liadrin’s shoulder with her own. “You’re pulling my leg.”

Liadrin chuckled, which told Alleria absolutely nothing.

“I’m going to assume you’re pulling my leg. I can’t actually picture you writing stories about people.”

“If it makes you feel better I didn’t write it.” Liadrin’s hand rested suddenly on her leg, and even through the armor and fabric Alleria felt her skin heat up and the Void recoil.

She was getting used to that. Just a little bit. The writhing inside her gut and chest and head, the voices whispering every time Liadrin was near. It was, oddly, not as loud as when she was near her sister. Maybe because the Light and Void were opposites, whereas Death was… something else entirely. 

Regardless of the reasons, she figured it was something they should talk about. Later. “I’m not sure that makes me feel better at all. Now about this digging idea… I’m afraid I didn’t bring a shovel.”

“I’ve got my shield.” Alleria could hear the grimace in Liadrin’s voice. “And my sword, loath as I am to damage it that way.”

“Bow is strong enough to do some digging,” Alleria admitted, relighting the make-shift torch she’d used in their explorations earlier. “So where do we start?”

The cave-in was a few meters to their left. Alleria spent a few heart beats too long watching the shadows from the torch play across Liadrin’s face before she stood and walked to the crevice.

“We start there.” Liadrin pointed at a cap in the rock that looked like it might be possible to dislodge.

Alleria was less sure of that, but she did get an idea when their hands brushed. “What if we took turns using the Light and Shadow? Increase our strength.”

Void infused her, rippling through her body. To Liadrin’s credit, she didn’t shy away even if she couldn’t quite hide her discomfort. And then Alleria slammed into the rocks. Once. Twice. A third time. She stepped back, a noticeable dent in the rocks and boulders.

Liadrin burned with the Light and Alleria felt as though her skin caught fire. It was _blinding, _ and it was going to be a long night.

After initial fits and starts, they found an easier pace of ten minutes each, though it was still exhausting, hard work. At the back of her mind, Alleria worried about what they’d find when they broke back through. If the Scourge would still be there, or something worse.

Alleria was on her fifth rotation when she heard something on the other side. Immediately, she pulled in the Void, returning to her usual form and pressed her ear to the thin gap that she could feel air coming through.

There were voices, and they were speaking Common. That didn’t mean they weren’t Scourge forces though. While she weighed her options, she returned to Liadrin, holding up her torch. It had almost burned out, and she was running out of easily accessible cloth to rip out of her armor to keep it lit. “There’s someone on the other side.”

“Scourge?”

“I can’t tell, but they’ve probably heard us.”

Liadrin pursed her lips. “When we break free, I want you to run and keep going. Don’t look back.”

“Yeah, no.” Alleria put her hand on Liadrin’s hip. “If there’s going to be some kind of heroic final stand we’re going to do it together.”

Hammering started to echo through the cavern. Stone and rock crumbled with every blow. Alleria lifted her bow and drew an arrow, while Liadrin took point, shield up. 

The last boulder practically disintegrated into dust and pebbles, but Alleria held her shot until she could tell if they were dealing with friend or foe. “Who are you?!”

“Don’t shoot!” A hand thrust a torch into view, and then the bearer carefully stepped inside. It was a Draenei woman in Rangari armor that had clearly seen better days. “I’m A’sooka.”

A’sooka led them out of the cavern and into Icecrown’s perpetual overcast. Three figures waited outside, and Alleria stiffened when she realized two of them were Sin’dorei Death Knights. A’sooka was quick to step between her and them. “It’s okay, they’re free.”

The last figure turned to face them. Valeera looked at them both with relief in her eyes. “You have no idea how stressed you’ve made me.”

“Where are all the Scourge?” Liadrin looked around, and for the first time Alleria realized they were all alone.

One of the Death Knights started to answer her, but the ground shook. Barely a heartbeat later, the top of Icecrown Citadel exploded, shattering like glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, the first 21 or so chapters of this fic were written _before_ the last Blizzcon ;)
> 
> To quote my beta: _the sheer power of straight up going "yeah, canon's a shitty Bad AU resulting from poorly-advised experimentation by a bronze dragon"_
> 
> And chapter 17 contains the scene that inspired me to start this thing!


	17. World of Ruin

**Three Days to Zero Hour**

Sylvanas found Icecrown Citadel in ruins. A great force had shattered stone and rent saronite, leaving twisted heaps of metal and skeletal framework blasted almost beyond recognition. Most of the top thirty meters of the Citadel had been vaporized; the Frozen Throne was gone, as though it had never existed at all.

Above, the sky rippled and writhed, the veil thinner than Sylvanas had ever thought possible, though it had not torn entirely.

As she stood in the ruined tower, her eyes tracked the movement of Scourge far below; at least, what little Scourge remained. Most had seemingly vanished, disappearing into crevices and crags and caves, or fled to other parts of Northrend. Whatever had happened here had scattered them like ants.

Jaina was not here, either. Only by virtue of their shared sixth sense did Sylvanas even know she was still intact. It was that link that turned her attention to the East, and the storm-wracked mountains there.

Leaving the gunship behind, Sylvanas leapt from the tower. She thought she heard Tyra shouting for her, but the cry was lost to the wind. At the last second, as the rocks loomed below her, she became incorporeal. Her mist spread across the ground at speed, rushing towards the Storm Peaks.

Sylvanas covered ground at inhuman speeds, the dead land of Icecrown shifting rapidly into tundra and snow and craggy peaks. There was a tall one, with a round Titan structure on top, stone platform with stone pillars and an open roof.

Jaina stood near one pillar, hand pressed against it and head bowed low. Her other hand gripped a staff that Sylvanas had never seen before. 

Mages, as a rule, used their staves to channel, control and amplify their power. Jaina, however, seemed to wield staves mostly out of habit. Ever since the battle at Orgrimmar where she'd wielded the Focusing Iris for a second time, she'd favored weapons formed from her own magic - and melee ones at that, though Sylvanas attributed that to the years of training they'd done together and a very real emphasis on her part to ensuring Jaina would never be defenseless without her magic. Fat lot of good that had done, in the end.

Still, there was something about this new staff Jaina was holding, formed of ice and energy and with all too familiar runes running down it, that sent an impossible chill down her spine. A _Rune_staff.

“Jaina?” Sylvanas made no effort to disguise her presence, and as she stepped onto the platform, Jaina turned to face her. They stared at each other, a dozen feet and a thousand miles between then as wind and snow whipped and buffeted at them. 

Jaina’s hair had come loose from her braid, blowing loosely around her head, shining and shimmering like ice on a lake in the dead of winter. Sylvanas hadn’t heard her voice in long enough that the echo was startling. “Hello.”

Sylvanas jerked her chin towards the west. “You’ve been busy, wife.”

“Bolvar is dead. He was depressingly easy to put down.”

She tried to read the expression in Jaina’s eyes, tried to tell if it was really Jaina she was talking to, or … someone else. Jaina stared back at her, her eyes an energetic ocean of ice and wind. Sylvanas found herself falling into them.

_The throne stood, twisted into something almost beautiful. Before it was the helm, and Jaina reached for it. Power surged through her, electricity where her fingers touched the cursed metal, and then that power flared. Heat and fire and energy, the cosmos flooded through Jaina and pushed back against the dark soul within the helm. Cracks formed, violet rays of light spider-webbing from Jaina’s hand until the helm shattered until the Citadel shattered until Jaina’s mind shattered._

Head throbbing, Sylvanas gasped and stumbled back against another pillar. Her voice was so faint she could barely hear it herself. “What have you done?”

“I’ve shone the light of truth to the greatest lie ever told,” Jaina replied, walking slowly towards Sylvanas. She tapped the staff as she did so. “There must always be a Lich King.” 

Tap.

“Says who? Frostmourne? The souls trapped within it, under its control? How _convenient._ That sounds a lot like exactly what the Lich King would want us to believe.”

Tap.

“Is not a Scourge directed with precision more dangerous than one scattered and lost?”

Tap.

Jaina stopped in front of Sylvanas, looking up at her, and once again Sylvanas questioned if she was really speaking to her wife, or … something else. “Fair point. There was always the chance that we were dealing with an unreliable narrator.”

“We knew it was a lie. We’ve _seen_ what happens when the Lich King’s control wavers, when his command of the Scourge is lost. Why did we believe it? How could we, with _you_ right in front of us? But I could still be wrong.” Jaina’s eyes searched Sylvanas’s. “I could have destroyed _everything_ we built.”

“Were you tempted?”

“To put it on?” Jaina tilted her head to the side, her eyes seeming to lose focus. “Yes. It was very convincing.”

Slowly, Sylvanas lifted her hand, her fingers brushing Jaina’s cheek. “Do you know who you are?”

“Sometimes I can barely remember. I don’t know who I am or who I’m supposed to be. But I know what I’ve done and I need you to trust me.” Jaina’s eyes focused again, and she held Sylvanas’s gaze.

None of this was as Sylvanas might have expected, after the way they’d spoken the last few times, after what she’d found in Icecrown and the disconcerting distance between them. 

There was no battle, no tumultuous words here the likes of which might shatter the mountains upon which they stood. Even the storm grew quiet, the winds dying down as the clouds parted to cast starlight onto them as they stood inches and miles apart

And in that new steady silence, the words escaped Sylvanas. They were quiet words, if not soft ones, for Sylvanas rarely if ever did anything softly. "I love you."

Jaina smiled, something that might almost be tears shining at the corners of her eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

It was not easy to say those words. There were perhaps five other people who’d ever heard them from her. Two were dead, never to return. And the others had not heard them since those deaths. 

But Sylvanas had watched Jaina’s life blood drain from her body, had felt keenly her old friends grief and despair. She’d carried her herself through the portal to Orgrimmar. Had laid her on that slab and commanded a Valkyr to give her entire being to return Jaina to this world without a moment’s hesitation. 

She’d had a lot of time to think about the way she’d felt and while she may never actually say them again, they’d been said.

As Tyra might tell her, no takesy backsies.

“You want me to trust you blindly, without knowing what it is you are doing or what this likely insane plan actually is,” Sylvanas said. “But you are Jaina Proudmoore, and if you say you have a plan, I cannot think of anyone else I would trust more.”

Jaina lifted her hand, pressing Sylvanas’s hand against her cheek. Her skin felt surprisingly … normal. Soft, not cold, but not warm either. Mostly, she felt like _home_. That smile returned, dispelling any notion that this woman was anything other than Jaina Proudmoore. Different, yes. Sylvanas was the first to admit that death changed a person. But it was still _her_.

And to say that was a relief would be an understatement. 

“I’d like to actually, you know, hear you say it.”

“I trust you, you fool, even if you _have_ managed to unleash the apocalypse once more onto Azeroth. I’m actually impressed. I couldn’t have done it better myself.”

“Oh, I’ve managed to impress you? High compliments indeed.” Jaina rested her free hand on Sylvanas’s hip, and Sylvanas felt as though the chasm between them had closed somewhat.

Words so often felt unnecessary, with Jaina, especially in recent years. What Sylvanas did not expect, nor want, was forgiveness. Just as she would not apologize for bringing Jaina back. But what she needed was their equilibrium restored, even if it might appear different from that which they’d had before. “Do you _hate_me?”

“No.” Jaina leaned into Sylvanas, their bodies fitting together like they always had. She could not hear Jaina’s heartbeat, nor feel her breath against her throat, two things she would probably always miss. But the hum of her unlife was comforting, and noticeably different from her own. 

Sylvanas could get used to that.

Jaina pulled their hips flush together, her lips brushing at Sylvanas’s neck, before teeth sank in deeply. Sylvanas pulled her head away and looked down at her wife. “_Now_? Really?”

“We might not see each other again for awhile,” Jaina pointed out. There was the slightest change to the coloring of her cheeks and Sylvanas’s eyes shrunk to points. _That_ was her Jaina. “And… and I need to _know_.”

“Here? Amidst Titan ruins while the world is on the verge of catastrophe?” Slowly, Sylvanas traced her finger along the scar that marred Jaina’s neck, much in the same way that Jaina so often traced the one on her chest. Marks of the past, proof that men were rarely to be trusted and that death, indeed, came for them all.

Jaina dug her fingers into Sylvanas’s hip, letting go of the hand on her face to tangle those fingers in Sylvanas’s hair. She pulled her in, lips meeting, that gulf bridged. The anger that had characterized their last kiss was absent, replaced by longing and an acceptance within Jaina that had been a long time in coming. With neither of them needing air, there was no need to shorten the kiss. Yet Sylvanas broke it first, compelled to say something. “You’re still you.”

“Jaina Mk. II,” Jaina replied, before pressing Sylvanas against a pillar. 

The temperature was well below freezing, but it might as well have been a warm, sunny day. Still, Jaina shivered when Sylvanas exposed her chest. She smirked, letting her own pauldrons clatter to the stone. “The cold bothering you?”

“Old habits.” Slowly, bit by bit, Jaina shed the rest of her robes, until she stood naked before Sylvanas. It hadn’t been a race, but Sylvanas won it anyway. Not that she was desperate, or anything.

She drank Jaina in, her snow-white skin and her hair of ice, perfectly preserved from the day she’d died, flaws and all. “You are, as always, beautiful.”

Jaina smiled, mischief etched into the expression as she became more comfortable with herself and Sylvanas again. “On your _knees_.”

Sylvanas did not hesitate to obey, dropping to her knees hard enough to jar her teeth. She reached out, grasping Jaina by the hips and pulling her in range of her lips and teeth. “Tell _no_ one of this.”

“Handy for blackmail.” Jaina slid her fingers into Sylvanas’s hair, stroking lightly, fingers twitching with undisguisable nerves.

“It will feel different,” Sylvanas murmured, looking up at Jaina and suddenly fascinated by the depth of the blue glow there and how sharp they’d become. Was this what Jaina saw in her? “And yet much the same.”

She pressed her lips to Jaina’s navel, then traced it with her tongue, stroking her fingers over Jaina’s hips and then down and across her thighs. All the while she kept close watch on her wife’s face and the sapphires of her eyes.

Jaina gasped, mouth dropping open when Sylvanas moved her thumb across her folds. Whether her legs trembled genuinely or simply as a memory from being alive was a question Sylvanas couldn’t answer, even for herself. But they trembled, and she moved her fingers again.

“Gods, I still don’t know how this all works.”

“Is _that_ what you’re going to focus on?”

“I just—“ Jaina groaned, her body shuddering as Sylvanas’s tongue replaced her fingers.

Sylvanas couldn’t remember if she herself had always been a quiet lover, but Jaina’s volume remained virtually unchanged from life, starting out as low, needy whimpers and rising as Sylvanas flicked her tongue in random patterns. Jaina’s hand slid down her stomach, then caught one of Sylvanas’s hands. She laced their fingers together and that simple act hit Sylvanas like an arrow. She closed her eyes, unable to deal with her feelings. Easier to focus on pleasuring Jaina. On re-learning her. She smelled and tasted different. Not unpleasant and not entirely so, but something had shifted.

On another day, in another place, Sylvanas would not have been satisfied with undoing Jaina just the once. But today, here, as Jaina’s voice still rang in her ears and off the mountains, she pulled her down and wrapped her arms around her.

“I missed this,” Jaina admitted. “Was this what it was like for you? To be so angry all the time?” She turned around in Sylvanas’s arms to look up at her. “It’s exhausting.”

“The dead don’t get _exhausted_.” A truth, or a lie. From certain points of view. 

“My point stands.” Jaina elbowed her, then leaned her head on Sylvanas’s shoulder.

“Are you still angry?”

“Not at you.”

“Do you still love me?”

“Just because I’m angry doesn’t mean I ever stopped.”

“So you’re still angry.”

Jaina took Sylvanas’s hand, and traced her knuckles with a finger. “Yes.”

“Good.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No lie, I wrote that first part months before the Shadowlands video came out, though, for the record, it's thin above Icecrown now, not shattered completely.
> 
> Also, that took what, a novel and a half to get Sylvanas to say "I love you"


	18. Zero Hour

It had been three days since Sylvanas had left Jaina on top of the mountain. Her wife had maintained her insistence on whatever it was she was planning, and Sylvanas trusted her. Damn her, but she trusted her.

Thus far, the Scourge invasion had not manifested itself. Sylvanas didn’t entirely trust _that_ so she remained paranoid, sending her Rangers and Champions to every location outside of Northrend that had a Scourge presence, and beefing up the growing siege outside of Icecrown with additional forces.

If Jaina was wrong, they would be ready. It might be a battle for the ages, the sort the Orcs might sing about for years afterwards. Not that such song would ever _reach_ the dead.

Sylvanas leaned her chin on her fist, ignoring the bickering of her advisors, studying Cromush instead. He was about as bored of the bickering as she was, but hid it better, standing at ease and leaning on his axe.

Briefly, Sylvanas fantasized about the Orc cutting all of their heads off and bellowing some nonsense about honor as their blood soaked the floor. It was, at least, far more entertaining than listening to them. 

Standing, she gestured at Cromush. “Walk with me, General.” She started for the exit, paused a moment, then glanced back at her advisors with a reproachful look. “You’re all dismissed. _Permanently_.”

“You go through more advisors than you do arrows, Warchief.” Cromush fell into step beside her as they entered Orgrimmar's night. The stars were coming into view, though with the torches and bonfires they’d never be as bright as they might be farther into Durotar. 

“You are probably wondering at the reasons as to why I recalled you from Northrend.”

“Something about a promotion,” He quipped. 

“Granda is dead. Your people need a leader.” The sky disappeared as they walked into the Drag, beneath numerous awnings and canopies. 

“Dead?”

“The Shaman who found her thought it was suicide. She had indicated she might choose that option, rather than die in her sleep, as is a warrior’s right.” 

“From the tone of your voice, I’d say you’re skeptical.”

“I asked Minuial for a second opinion.” Sylvanas stopped suddenly, holding up her hand. Slowly, she tilted her head, listening.

A single, nearly silent footfall on stone was the only sign before an arrow ripped through the air and embedded itself deep in Sylvanas’s throat.

She tore it from her neck and rolled out of the way of another series of arrows, narrowly staying ahead of each. Whoever they were, they were _good_. Maybe not Windrunner good, but good enough to earn a _little_ respect.

Magic sparked between each of the arrows, the fletching unfamiliar to Sylvanas. Too late she realized the game they were playing as the spell gripped her body and dragged her to the ground.

Movement drew her eyes to a figure above her, the assassin falling from the roof above and dropping with his blade like a guillotine, the—-

—- design wasn’t too bad, but Mekkatorque really should go to bed, he thought, as he inspected his work. He was pretty sure it was also breakfast time but not entirely sure he’d had dinner. But that infernal ticking was driving him—-

—-madness, this was all madness. Blades clashed in the streets of Stromgarde as Vereesa weaved her way through alleyways, bow gripped tightly in her hand and the other protective over her stomach. She heard her wife scream but didn’t dare look back. The sun gleamed off of a steel blade—-

—-light flared, bright enough to blind. The man screamed, covering his eyes before Velen calmly lifted his staff and knocked—-

—-on Lor’themar’s door. It swung open a crack and the servant peered inside to see a figure dangling from a beam, spinning—-

—-slowly, Talanji approached the smoldering body of the man who dared to think he could infiltrate her city. Zandalar would not—-

—-live to see the dawn. Rokhan stumbled across the sandy beach, lifting his hand to see the—-

—-Blood pooled on the ground beneath Tandred Proudmoore as the world swam around him. He barely brought his cutlass up in time to keep his head—-

—Magic such as this was not enough to hold Sylvanas. It was an _insult_ that it had even worked at all. Her shriek pierced the night and she exploded. The man attempting to kill her turned into a mist of blood and shattered bone, but Sylvanas paid little heed. He was not alone, and she wanted that _archer_.

Cromush was occupied with a pair of assassins. They lacked his strength but moved as one, forever dancing out of range whenever he got close.

For a moment, Sylvanas considered assisting him. But he could handle himself, and they needed at least one of their prey alive.

The archer was fleeing now, leaping from rooftop to rooftop almost quicker than the eye could see. But Sylvanas had hunted far more elusive prey. She caught her before she could get much farther, grabbing the archer by the hair and yanking hard.

The woman, a human, crunched on something and started to convulse. Sylvanas reached into a pouch at the woman’s hip, and pulled out the woman’s runestone. She smiled and threw it aside. The woman’s eyes were wild with defiant fear, but Sylvanas found it an oddly beautiful sight. “Death will not save you from me, child.”

Gradually the spasms stopped. Sylvanas shouldered the body, and took off the way she’d come. 

“General? I do hope you’re done playing with them, I have some resurrections to do.”

She hopped down from the roof, and scowled. Cromush lay still, a half dozen daggers and swords sticking out of him. To his credit, he hadn’t gone down easy, or alone. Sylvanas approached him, and nudged him with his boot. 

He lifted his head, and spit out blood. “These fuckers cheat.”

“You will die before a healer arrives. Would you like a chance to find out what the hell just happened, and get some revenge?”

“Sure, why not.” He chuckled, which quickly turned into a series of wracking coughs. 

“That’s a relief. I was not looking forward to finding another replacement.”

****

**********

Blood soaked through Moira’s nightgown, and dribbled out from a hundred cuts on her legs and hands. A nasty gash ran down her side, but she needed to conserve her power. She limped out of the council chambers, bare feet on glass, and grabbed for the nearest guard. “We need healers in the council chambers an’ guards tae the royal chambers!”

Tomorrow, tomorrow the Council of Three Hammers would have been disbanded at last, her son fully ready to rule on his own. 

Today, Muradin Bronzebeard was dead and Falstad might not be long behind him without a healer. 

“Get movin’!” She shoved the guard off, and picked up her pace, ignoring the pain in her feet. She had to find her son, she had to find the King. Moira didn’t know if he was alive or dead, or how hurt he might be, but it was obvious to her that he would be a target too. Faster, she had to move _faster_.

“Ye, paladin!” She pointed at a woman riding by on a ram. “I need tae get tae the royal chambers.”

“Y’look like ye might need a healer yourself, your majesty.” Despite her words, she reached down to help Moira up. Moira felt a tingle of Light go through her, dulling the pain and stopping the worst of the bleeding.

“Thank ye. Now ride!”

****

**********

At a window in the Keep, gloved hands carefully and silently worked at the locking mechanism, the only sound calm, even breaths and the faint scratching of metal on metal. It only took a few minutes, and the lock clicked faintly. Smiling behind his mask, the goblin pushed the window open and climbed nimbly inside, pulling the window shut behind him. He waited, counting to one hundred, until he was assured he had entered unnoticed.

There were six pairs of guards on this floor, between himself and his target. He knew their patrol routes better than they did, he knew that the junior guard nearest this window was often hungover or drunk. Problems at home, he’d discovered. Not that he had much sympathy when those ‘problems’ involved bloody knuckles.

It was the guard that patrolled with him that was the greater concern. She was a senior guard, well seasoned and strict on the rules. She kept the young man in line, and would be the greater threat.

Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out a vial with fine powder and dumped some on his hands. Then, silent as a mouse, he slipped around the corner and blew the dust at the guards. They were unconscious before they hit the floor. 

After stowing them and leaving the younger with an extra smile, the man repeated his trick with the other ten guards, hiding them in nooks and crannies and a service elevator.

Even killers had standards.

To maximize his success, he barricaded the doors to the two stairwells; should an alarm be raised it would give him the time he needed to escape. 

A whoosh of air was the only warning he had and he twisted out of the way as a knife grazed his cheek and impaled an unfortunate statue of King Varian between the legs. His assailant followed up with an immediate attack, reverse wielding a pair of thin blades as long as his arm.

He barely got his own daggers out in time to parry, sparks flying as the blades skidded across each other. 

Took her long enough.

The woman was tall, built for this kind of fight and distractingly attractive in the tight leathers she was wearing. Was this the infamous Valeera Sanguinar? She was _supposed_ to still be in Northrend. His brothers were to take care of the eldest Windrunner and hopefully that traitor elf while they were at it.

Backpedaling into the light of a lantern, he got a better look at his opponent. Long ears, violet hair and the midnight eyes of a Night Warrior. This wasn’t much better than Sanguinar if he was perfectly honest with himself.

Trying to keep the nerves out of his voice, he asked, “Shadowblade Ravenwing, stand aside okay?”

“How does it go again?” Yukalee said, unmoving, her blades at the ready. “‘The slayers of kings, the downfall of empires, the unseen blades that write the true history of this world?’ That never sat well with me."

“The Uncrowned do what needs to be done, kid. Did Sanguinar fill your head with ideals? Or are ya having buyer’s remorse. Ya joined us willingly, remember? So we could fight the Legion. We ain’t that different.”

“My head has _always_ been full of ideals.” She leapt forward, slashing her blades down in an upside down vee motion. 

He barely rolled out of the way, getting to his feet as he was put on the defensive. If he could just get to one of his concoctions he could put an end to this little sparring match. “Ideals ain’t the kinda thing that’s useful in this profession.”

“I gave you _so_ much money for your elixirs too,” she complained, jumping onto a table and kicking off of the wall, her weapons like drill bits as she descended towards him. At the last moment, he dodged left, only for her foot to find his face. He crashed into the wall, minus a tooth, and picked himself up.

“Hey, I never _did_ thank you proper like for helping with all of that. But I did give ya a discount, babe.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure you upcharged me, Noggenfogger.”

Noggenfogger grinned, blood leaking onto his chin from his missing tooth. “Ah yeah, that’s right.” He held up his hands, grin only widening. “Guess I surrender, eh?”

Yukale frowned at him, then gestured with one of her blades. “First things first. You’re going to disarm yourself. And then we’re taking a little trip to the Stockades.”

**********

Dagran lay face down in the hallway outside his bedroom, his assassin crumbled nearby, the Forsaken’s face and skull crushed. Anguished, Moira rushed to his side, dropping to her knees next to her son and searching for a pulse. It was there, faint and fluttering, but it was _there_.

Carefully, she rolled him onto his back, wincing at the wound in his stomach. “Aye, that’s bad.”

“Let me help, your majesty.”

“Thank ye, Broadstone.” Moira steadied her breathing, reaching for the Light both within and without. “I just need ye tae keep him stable, ye got a kit? I’ll do the heavy liftin.”

Broadstone nodded, pulling out a first aid kit. Moira nodded. It seemed like a simple thing, but her son would need to be bandaged and his wounds cleaned. The Light couldn’t cure all.

“Good. Keep him floatin’, get him bandaged, an’...” And she’d drain herself to death if she had to.

Her hands started to glow, and she started to talk, needing to fill the silence. “A few years ago, a bunch a us got taegether. Me an’ King Wrynn. Horde, Alliance, everyone in between. Priests an’ paladins. Even a few Druids. We wanted tae compare notes, learn from each other.”

Moira chewed on her lip, expression stern. “We discovered a few things ‘bout different kinda healin’. Did ye know Druid healin’ is less effective against burns than usin’ the Light? Somethin’ ‘bout that kinda healin’ rejuvinatin’ the life force an’ burns destoryin’ tissue in a way that makes that harder. Shaman have a better time of it. That whole water thing I think. Didn’t have too many Monks, always meant tae ask one about it…

Her head snapped up. ”Do ye know of any Druid healers in the city?”

“There might be a few.” Broadstone pressed a bandage against the wound in the King’s gut. “But I’d worry about leaving him like this tae find one.”

“We’re goin tae need at least one more dedicated healer if my son has any hopes of livin’,” Moira admitted. “I can keep him stable long enough an’ I think a Druid can knit this wound together better than me.”

Without another word, the paladin rose to her feet and quickly left the building.

The woman seemed dependable and steady, and Moira could remember a few reports from her postings over the years. “Just hold on. We’ll get ye through this my boy, I promise.”

**********

Anduin’s chambers were dark, the candles having long ago gone out while he slept. The only movement was the curtains on the bed flapping from a breeze from the window and a shadow that approached on silent feet.

A flash of silver and the poisoned blade slipped home, the figure beneath velvet sheets not even twitching.


	19. Old Wolves

She hadn’t even been able to send a message before she’d been whisked off to the target location; but she and Valeera had always known that danger existed. It had been hard enough for Tess to convince the other Shadowblades that if _anyone_ was going to kill her father, it would be _her_, and she hadn’t wanted to press her luck.

The Uncrowned moved people like chess pieces across a global game board and her piece was moving through the forest, another assassin to her left and a few paces behind. With Valeera distracted in Northrend, and the Scourge threat apparently neutralized, it had been decided it was time to move.

Tess was half convinced Alleria and Liadrin’s disappearance was part of the plan, but she wouldn't be sure. _Technically_, she and Valeera were on opposite sides, but the other members of the Uncrowned were less than trusting of her.

“The others should have him cornered by now,” the man whispered, and Tess rested her palm on the hilt of a dagger. “I know you two don’t get along, I mean, I get that, my own pop and me get into screaming matches. But sticking him? That takes balls, princess.”

Tess smiled tensely, not daring to let him see her eyes or face as she replied. “If it leads to a more stable Azeroth, it’s worth it, isn’t it? I joined the Uncrowned knowing what it is we do behind the scenes. I’m not one to shirk my responsibilities.” The joke was on him, considering how often she’d done that growing up. “Besides, at least this way I know no one’s going to...play with their food.”

“Yes! Precisely! We need someone who _understands_ our values, someone who can take over the throne of Gilneas and guide it into the new era. Someone, of course, who’s _cooperative_, isn’t that right, Queen Greymane?”

She hoped the darkness was enough to hide the way she stiffened.

If her tail noticed, he gave no indication. The man sounded almost bored. “I’m _sure_ the Lady Crowley would agree.”

“Yes,” Tess replied, eyes widening as her mind raced. “Yes, I suppose she would.”

**********

Even with his enhanced vision, Genn could barely make out the figures in the shadows. They were smart enough to be downwind, so he couldn’t scent them, and they used the trees to disguise their movements, making it harder to track or identify them.

He’d led them into the woods, away from Mia and their guests. That unfortunately left him without guards and with a wound in his leg that slowed him down. From the creeping feeling of ice in his blood, it had probably been some kind of poison. Genn ran faster, dodging trees and bushes, leaping over a fallen log, propelled on four powerful limbs.

At least one of the assassins seemed capable of keeping up, and Genn could catch glimpses of glowing green eyes.

He careened into a clearing, narrowly avoiding a snare trap. The effort sent him crashing into the underbrush. Slowly, he picked himself up, baring his teeth and readying himself for a fight. This was far enough. “At least have the self-respect to show your faces before I kill you!”

To his right, the brush moved and swayed, a wolf trotting out and staring at him. No, not a wolf... 

That woodland scout who’d gone almost fully feral. He couldn’t remember her name, and didn’t particularly care. 

The second emerged to his left, a tall, lanky elf with shockingly red hair slicked back into a braid. There was a smile on his face, the kind which aggravated Genn to no end. “Happy now, old wolf?”

At least neither of them were Forsaken. That would have just been _insulting_.

**********

Lorna was in trouble. That threat had been more than clear, and Tess ignored the fear that ran down her spine as she ran through possible scenarios.

Maybe it was nothing, maybe her current partner was just that kind of creepy. And even then, this was _Lorna_; if they’d kidnapped her, it was her captors Tess should worry about.

But worry she did, and it took all her concentration to keep from tripping on roots and rocks. Suddenly her plan seemed less clever, and more foolish. Were they playing her, or she them?

“I hope you don’t expect me to just be a puppet queen.” She jumped up, grasping onto a branch and swinging herself up. “Yes, our goals align, but I have to keep the wellbeing of Gilneas in mind.”

“Of course, _princess_.”

Gods, she hated when people called her princess. It wasn’t _her_ fault she was royalty. If given half a chance she’d be inclined to do away with the whole thing entirely. There was something to be admired about the approach Harleen had introduced the Goblins to, or something more like the Council of Three Hammers. Tess had once spent three hours arguing with Falstad and Moira about just doing away with the royal house and adding a few more members to the council, elected by the people.

She’d often thought about what she’d do when her father eventually passed. As Queen, she’d have the right to govern as she chose. She wanted a council, chosen by the people, and then gradually she’d reduce her power until the King or Queen were no more than figureheads.

Royalty had done nothing but get Azeroth in trouble for millenia.

But that didn’t mean she _wanted_ to see him dead. He was an _asshole_, but he was still her father. Even if he would definitely need to be dead and buried before she implemented any sort of reforms.

Tess paused, perched on a branch as she surveyed a clearing ahead. “We should have come across them by now. Are you sure this is the right place?”

“_You’re_ definitely in the right place.”

She looked around, trying to place where the voice was coming from. But the man had melted into the shadows and his voice was impossible to pinpoint. Tess dropped from the tree and slowly edged into the clearing. There was nobody here except for a confused looking squirrel.

Tess drew her blades. “My father isn’t here.”

“He’s a few thousand miles away and probably bleeding out by now.” The voice seemed to come from her left, and she kept one eye and ear angled in that direction as she tried to avoid putting her back to the forest. “We just had to make sure you wouldn’t do something stupid. Oh, you can still prove your loyalty, but it will be with a different target.”

“Screw my father, where is my wife?”

“Safe.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” 

The man didn’t answer her at first, and Tess felt unease worming its way through her belly. Her grip tightened, and she closed her eyes to instead rely on her other senses.

“She will remain safe, as long as you continue to cooperate.”

“What do you need me to do?” She stopped moving, still straining to detect his presence. She knew if she killed him, Lorna’s life would be in danger. At the least, she needed him alive long enough to learn where she was.

He didn’t answer, and Tess opened her eyes. “I asked you a question.”

Silence.

“...Hello?”

A shrouded figure stepped out from between two trees. Lorna pulled her hood back and grinned cockily. “Did you really think it would be that easy to keep me captive? I’m almost insulted.”

**********

“My name is Rialor,” the elf said, pressing his hand to his chest and giving Genn a short, almost respectful bow. “Talet you know, I suspect. Or do you?”

“A half-feral traitor who forgot what it means to be civilized,” Genn spit. Talet’s ears snapped forward and her gaze sharpened. Good, he’d struck a mark. “It matters not to me. Let’s get this over with, I was looking forward to dinner.”

“Valeera Sanguinar values her independence so dearly that, in her arrogance, she makes one fatal mistake.” Rialor rolled his eyes, shoulders relaxed and seemingly in no hurry to escalate the fight. “She thinks she’s the only person in the world whose loyalties are their own. Perhaps if either of you listened to your people, none of this would come as a surprise. I’ve spent a lot of time talking with your erstwhile countrywoman.” He glanced at Talet with a genuinely fond expression. “_Granted_, I’ve done most of the talking, but it was still enlightening.”

Genn growled, but the warning went unheeded.

“Whose fault was it, again, that the Curse ravaged Gilneas?” Rialor smiled, drawing a thick, wide blade and flipping it from hand to hand. “You sought to create weapons to keep the Scourge at bay. Well congratulations, you created a weapon, and then got your fool ass bit.”

He gestured at Talet. “You call her feral, but she was _wild_. And whose fault was that? Bitten at the age of twelve, barely more than a child—by the monsters her king had created. Thank goodness for the kaldorei, no? Operating without your knowledge and against your orders, of course—the country might be ravaged by your own corrupted people, terrified and out of control and unable to defend themselves, but Light forbid you allow elves in to provide desperately-needed aid. One must draw the line somewhere, after all.”

Rialor’s blade dance was hypnotizing, but it was clearly designed to be, and Genn ignored most of it. Grandstanders who talked too much didn’t become assassins; the whelp was a distraction. He kept an eye on the dark-coated female circling him. No flashy daggers on that one, only a blackened steel handaxe; and Genn had been challenged enough to know how the ritual went.

A snarling wolf was one that could still be reasoned with. The purpose of a threat display was to scare the target into backing off. 

A wolf that was dead silent was no longer interested in surrender.

“Your friend can’t speak for herself?” he growled.

“I don’t believe she has anything to say to you. The Scythe of Elune is an amazing artifact,” Rialor mused as if the interruption hadn’t happened. “Though it requires the target to be subdued first. Easier done when they’re a scrawny pup with paws too big for them. And then she was trapped, forced to hide herself for yours. Stable and sane, King Greymane, and a child of your own kingdom—but you know very well how much that would have mattered, should anyone have learned what she is. By your orders, or so I’m told.”

“That was a long time ago, and it was to protect the citizens of Gilneas.”

For the first time, he got a rippling snarl from the shadows. 

_“Like me?!”_

“Twenty silver a pelt, Greymane.” The elf’s lip curled slightly. “Every one of them belonging to your own people. And all the while _your_ curse was eased by experimental potions...that you never made public. Someone might have asked why you had them.” 

That blade bounced back and forth, while Genn watched green eyes pace in the shadows. “Is this the part where you tell me it’s some irony that this is how I’m going to die?”

“Can you imagine? She’s wanted this for _years_.” Rialor’s voice lowered, becoming gravelly and infused with passion. “The chance to tear out your throat and make you suffer as she has, to spill your blood in payment for all the blood you’ve watered Azeroth with. It’s frankly … beautiful. Admit it, your majesty. You deserve this.”

“Maybe.” Genn’s head swiveled. “But do you think you could take me, pup?”

Talet didn’t so much as blink. “Yes.” 

“Which of you do you imagine has more experience putting down aggressive male worgen?” Much as Genn hated to admit it, the smug elf had a point. Maybe, if it wasn’t for the poison in his leg... “The king, or the fur trapper too human to run with the pack and too wolf to live anywhere that might have protected her?” 

The darkened axe spun once, a businesslike adjustment. Genn, accustomed to using his heightened senses to run rapid-fire threat assessments, was beginning to find her unbroken eye contact unnerving.

“You cursed your people. Let’s hope your daughter is clever enough to work—” 

There was a flash of movement, and Rialor was abruptly cut off by the axe embedded in his throat. 

Talet yanked her weapon free and shoved him to the ground. Her eyes flicked to Genn, hatred and disdain swirling within them. She pulled out a vial of a weak healing potion, enough to counter the toxin and very little else, and flung it in his direction.

Genn managed to grab the little bottle out of the air without fumbling it, reacting mostly by reflex as his brain caught up. The assassins’ double agent had been better at her job than they realized, it seemed.

He managed a rough, rueful laugh, heartbeat racing as the adrenaline started to wear off. “You know,” he said with a wry smile. “You could have done that a _little_ sooner, if you didn’t actually want me dead. Nearly did me in with a heart attack, girl. You really had me believing all that—”

Yellow teeth snapped an inch from his face, moonlight glinting off the edge of a bloody axe.

“What the _hell!”_

“Wanting something doesn’t give me the right to _take_ it.” Talet looked up as a shadow passed overhead, and then dove towards them. A snow-white gryphon landed nearby, its rider guiding it protectively between Genn and the faintly trembling rogue. Arcane runes illuminated the clearing as she called up a portal.

“If you’re going to Stormwind,” the mage said curtly, “Do it now. Otherwise you can walk.”

Genn’s shoulders tensed, his eyes widening. This _couldn’t_ be an isolated incident. 

“_Anduin_.”

**********

“-gency meeting in Stormwind,” someone was saying. Sylvanas ignored him, her eyes focused on the faint yellow of her erstwhile assassin’s.

The new Forsaken blinked, jerking back reflexively as she took in the people staring at her. She looked down at her trembling hands, then brought them to her face. “I had a _stone!_”

“Prove it,” Sylvanas hissed. “However, there is ample evidence that you attempted to kill the Warchief of the Horde. And you succeeded in killing the leader of the Orcs.” 

She gestured at the newly risen Cromush. “Though he’s looking better than he ever has, if I say so myself..”

Cromush grinned, cracking his knuckles as he approached. “Welcome back, little lady.”

Harleen frowned, clearly uncomfortable. “I know she was tryin’ to kill ya an’ everything, but ain’t it kinda skeevy jus’ ressin’ her like this?”

“I’ll kill her again if she wishes,” Sylvanas promised, her eyes still locked on the woman’s. She leaned forward. “What is your name.”

Though the woman tried to resist, it was more command than question. The words were pulled from her lips. “Laura Ramsey.”

“Hello, Laura.” Sylvanas straightened. She sounded almost gentle “That’s a good start. Who are you working for?”

Laura closed her eyes, gritting her teeth.

Sylvanas’s voice echoed through the Hold, firm and commanding. “_Who are you working for?_”

Again, Laura resisted, until she tilted her head back and gasped, “The Shadow Leader.”

“Typical.” Sylvanas reached down, caressing Laura’s cheek and forcing her to meet her eyes. “Who is the Shadow Leader.”

Black ichor oozed out of Laura’s nose as the command echoed through her mind. She held Sylvanas’s gaze and spat out, “I don’t know. Only the council knows.”

“A shadow leader and a shadow council?” Cromush flexed his hands. “Where can we find them?”

“Dalaran sewers.” This time it took less of a command for Laura to answer. “But they’re probably long gone by now.”

“What do they hope to accomplish?”

Laura’s smile was slightly unhinged. “A new world order.”

Sylvanas glanced back at Harleen. “Emergency meeting in Stormwind, I believe?”

“Yeah, we ain’t the only ones cleanin’ up a mess.”

“Someone pick up this trash. I’ll take her with us…” Sylvanas looked thoughtful. “And I’ll bring a Valkyr, just in case.”


	20. Devotion

Vereesa sat in a chair, leaning back and watching the sad, sorry procession of Horde and Alliance leadership walk in through thick, heavily guarded doors.

The left half of her head was heavily bandaged, and she did not want to be here. Not with Cene still hovering between life and death, and Stromgarde on lockdown. But she trusted Kaevi to keep order, and was thankful he’d come out of the whole thing relatively unscathed.

The same could not be said for everyone. Ironforge had sent an advisor, and the news was grim; Bronzebeard had been slain, and both the King and Falstad Wildhammer badly injured. She couldn’t blame Moira for staying behind. It had been hard enough for her to leave Cenengel.

There was no word from Baine, Rohkan’s body had been found leaning against a tree facing the sunrise, and Lor’themar’s apparent suicide was obviously anything but. 

Messengers had been dispatched to Suramar, Kaldrassil, and Dalaran; but there’d been no response yet, which worried Vereesa.

She continued the head count as messengers or her fellow leaders arrived. Velen and Talanji entered together, speaking in low tones. Tandred looked worse than Valeera did, and Quinzel not much better. Fareeya somehow managed to look as though she had just put on brand new armor, but the bruise on her face told a different story. 

Sylvanas arrived late, accompanied by Cromush. Vereesa sat up straighter as she noted his ashen complexion and the glow of his eyes. 

Everyone seemed to notice at the exact same time. The entire room went silent and Sylvanas rolled her eyes. “He _volunteered._”

Cromush nodded. “Yeah, I’m good. We’ve brought the assassin we captured, she’s been locked up in the Stockades for now.”

“Jaina,” Vereesa asked, pushing herself up awkwardly. 

Sylvanas’s eyes flicked to Vereesa’s stomach and back to her face. “_Really?_ The twins weren’t enough?”

“We’ll talk about that later. Is Jaina okay?” To Vereesa’s right, Tandred turned towards them.

“When last I saw her, yes. She is on a mission of her own.”

Tandred stepped closer, repeating Vereesa’s question. “But she’s safe?”

Sylvanas tilted her head towards him. “Yes, she is.” There was a pause, one that was almost awkwardly long, before she asked Vereesa, “Your wife?”

Vereesa managed to not appear too taken aback. “Alive, but injured. Stromgarde is secured and we’re running security sweeps.”

“Orgrimmar is being swept as well.”

“Have you heard from Alleria at all?”

Sylvanas shook her head. “Not directly, though my sources tell me she arrived in Dalaran with Lady Liadrin and Valeera.”

“So she’s alive at least…” Vereesa lifted her hand to the uninjured side of her head and grimaced. “We all got caught so flat-footed, it’s embarrassing.”

“Yes, well, most of you are weaklings.” Sylvanas’s eyes slid across those gathered.

“I’m _sure_ you had an easy time of it. It’s not like most of these assassins were Champion caliber or better.”

“Quite.” Her eyes snapped back to Vereesa. “Where are the lion and his dog?”

Lion. Not cub. Vereesa gave her sister a concerned look. “We...Anduin’s blankets were slashed, but there was no sign of him. No one has heard from Genn yet either.”

“Kidnapped, or killed and buried somewhere, perhaps to sow discord and fear.” 

“Don’t sound too impressed.”

Sylvanas smirked. “I would have done it all a little differently.” A commotion drew her attention to the outer hallways, just before Genn Greymane rushed in. She sighed. “Ah. Pity.”

“Where is Anduin?”

Glances were exchanged, no one quite willing to be the one to volunteer what little they knew until Sylvanas stepped forward. “Missing. Possibly dead. I _wonder_ if he carries a stone, these days.”

He glowered at her, yet was strangely subdued, favoring one leg and clearly handling all of this about as well as the rest of them.

Honestly, the whole situation felt a little personal. Someone had organized enough assassins to attempt to cut the head off of every major nation on the planet. Vereesa was positive it was the same people who’d targeted the Council of Six, and wouldn’t be surprised if they’d had a hand in Jaina’s death.

With Genn’s arrival, that meant everyone was accounted for as alive, injured or dead, besides Anduin, Baine, Thalyssra and Tyrande. That the latter two in particular had made no appearance nor sent any messengers was alarming.

“That the Kaldorei assassin got far enough into my city to breach my chambers is of concern,” Talanji said, looking at Sylvanas, then Genn. They all knew how formidable Zuldazar’s defenses were, especially in the years since the Blood War. The Zandalari had only gotten more paranoid and insular since then. “I gather the rest were equally skilled. And we’ve had no word from Suramar or Kaldrassil?”

Fareeya inclined her head. “Nothing from either, though we are expecting a response from Dalaran shortly. The Council will have surely been on the list of targets, perhaps to eliminate Khadgar.”

“I’m worried about Baine,” Velen said, leaning heavily on his staff. “He is a strong warrior, but Thunder Bluff has been oddly silent.”

“Baine is fine, as am I.” Anduin’s voice rang through the room, and Vereesa spotted him standing in the doorway. He looked disheveled, much like many of them did, though he was wearing a shirt at least six sizes too big for him. 

“Thank the gods.” Genn limped over to him, grabbing him by the shoulder as if to check him over for injuries. “I feared the worse.”

“I’m fine, Genn. Really.” Anduin gently disentangled himself. “I was in Thunder Bluff.”

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes and Vereesa elbowed her before she could say _anything_.

“Were you attacked?” She asked.

“Yes, we were involved in … discussions, I don’t think our assailant expected Baine to be with anyone.”

“I hope those discussions were _fruitful_,” Sylvanas said, eyebrows raised. “And I am _relieved_ to see you unharmed.”

Genn wrinkled his nose, a confused expression crossing his face. “Ah. Yes. I…Where _is_ Baine?”

“He wanted to oversee the first sweeps, but will be joining us shortly,” Anduin responded. He looked around the room. “I think someone needs to tell me the bad news first.”

Talanji answered. “Bronzebeard is dead. So are Rohkhan and Lor’themar. The rest of the Three Hammers and the King are all injured. ” She gestured at Sylvanas and the Orc. “Cromush got better.”

“Shit.” Anduin leaned heavily against the door frame. “The Covenant?”

“We don’t know yet,” Vereesa answered, sounding almost as exhausted as she felt. “If we don’t hear from them soon, we may need to consider—”

There was a flash, and when the light faded Valtrois stood in the center of the room, holding a plate of cheese and fruits and flanked by Tyrande and Thalyssra. She fanned herself. “You would not _believe_ the night we have had.”

****

**********

“So there I was,” Valtrois was saying, gesturing with her left hand before popping a grape into her mouth. “Minding my own business in the First Arcanist’s kitchen.”

“You have your own kitchen,” Thalyssra retorted, lifting her hand to her temple. Valtrois was far too chipper for the current situation but she knew better than to try to stop her when she got started.

“Just paying a little visit,” Valtrois countered, setting her plate down. “I hear the window crack open, which is somewhat odd considering we were eleven stories up and the windows are all magically warded. I reach out with my magical senses to discover the wards _completely_ disabled.”

Thalyssra nodded. “Which should be impossible.”

“Regardless, it’s true. This man in black climbs inside and I trap him in a time stasis bubble. He’s still there, mind, but I thought it best to check on my dear friends.” She gestured to Tyrande and Thalyssra.

“We were a bit occupied at the time ourselves,” Tyrande said. “With _seven_ assassins.”

“Seven?” Anduin looked taken aback. “I suppose that would make sense considering how dangerous the two of you are.”

Was that _Baine’s_ shirt? Thalyssra stared a moment, then replied. “That’s the thing. None of them appeared to have coordinated with one another.”

“This ought to be entertaining,” Sylvanas said.

“One assassin killed himself before we could question him,” Thalyssra continued. Across the room, Anduin began silently counting them out on his fingers. “But the rest included a Kaldorei rebel upset at the unification, who was injured by a Shal’dorei from a group who wished to remain with the Horde.”

Valtrois swirled her hand. “A Darnassian Highborne absolutely _furious_ that after years of being shunned the Kaldorei are so _friendly_ with magic users now.”

“A surviving Elisande loyalist, and an Aszhara supporter,” Tyrande finished.

“There was also that anarchist, and...” Thalyssra cut herself off. “Valtrois, is that my cheese?”

Valtrois made direct eye contact with Thalyssra as she slowly pushed a piece of cheese into her mouth. “Mphno.”

Vereesa quietly put a piece of cheese back on the platter.

“Wow, so _that’s_ a clusterfuck if I ever heard of one!” Harleen let out a low, somewhat impressed whistle.

“Isn’t it though,” Valtrois nodded at Harleen. “Quite spectacular if you ask me. I’m impressed they all decided to strike at once and I'm not entirely sure if that was good or bad luck. Good for us I suppose, since it was fairly simple to let them dispatch each other and finish up the stragglers.”

The migraine that was exploding through Thalyssra’s head was a clusterfuck in and of itself. “It’s clear that someone or someones is moving against us all. Alliance. Horde. Covenant.”

Genn looked like he also had a migraine. Or was perhaps on the verge of a stroke. “We cannot let this stand!”

“And how did you escape, old wolf?”

He snarled at Sylvanas. “Some people have moral centers.”

She leaned forward. “Funny, coming from you.” 

“Enough.” Anduin stepped between them holding his arms out. It only made the absurdity of his oversized shirt more obvious. “We’ll send someone to Dalaran to find Valeera, she might have more information.”

A guard cleared her throat and spoke up, face heated as she valiantly ignored her king’s state of dress. “Champion Ravenwing was present in the city, your majesty. She captured one of the assassins sent after you. He’s in the stockades.”

“Which is where I left my own prisoner,” Sylvanas remarked. “I suggest we pay them a _visit_.”

“I wish to inspect Kaldrassil,” Tyrande said. She turned towards Thalyssra. “Let me know what you find.”

She smiled back, feeling a bit of warmth despite everything that had transpired the previous night. If they’d been alone, her answer would have been longer, and much more intimate. “Of course.”

“Quickly,” Sylvanas waved her hand, tone dry and condescending. “Send her away before you start humping each other like mongrels.”

Genn looked like he wasn’t sure if that was also aimed at him or not, but Thalyssra ignored Sylvanas. She squeezed Tyrande’s hand and called up a portal.

As the portal faded away, taking her lover with it, she spied Valtrois handing cheese and grapes out to the others.

Maybe she should have _accidentally_ blasted Valtrois during all the chaos. It would make her life so much easier.

****

**********

Tyrande had been teleported to the center of the city, which suited her fine. It allowed her to quickly get in contact with local leadership and get a status update on anything unusual within the city or on the tree.

Most importantly for her was knowing if Shandris and Malfurion were all right. And maybe, she supposed, Maiev.

Signaling a sentinel, she called out, “Have you seen any of my acolytes?”

“Moonsong is at the temple, High Priestess,” She replied, bowing.

“Have you heard any word of Malfurion, Archdruid Manadh or General Feathermoon?”

The sentinel looked puzzled. “Stormrage was last seen at the barrow dens, and the General is in Gilneas. I believe the Archdruid is assisting with the regrowth in the Blasted Lands. Is something wrong?”

Tyrande tensed, feeling ice clawing at her gut. “Yes, there have been attacks on leadership around the world. I will go to the temple and see if Moonsong has any more information. Can you gather a few sentinels and make sure both Stormrage and Feathermoon are all right? I want the General to return to Kaldrassil and oversee it until further notice. And send someone to recall the Archdruid, if she is willing.”

“Of course!”

She exhaled and then added, somewhat reluctantly. “Send a messenger to Shadowsong as well.”

Trusting the sentinel to do her duty, Tyrande hurried at a fast clip to the temple.

The Temple of Elune on Kaldrassil was a near perfect replica of the temple that had once existed in Darnassus, though it had one key difference.

Within, forming a sort of hallway between the entrance and the temple proper, was a massive, hollow charred log. To walk into the Temple of Elune, one must first walk through the remains of Teldrassil, and remember. Even in her hurried state, even with the weight of the knowledge that the fragile state of the world had just been upended, Tyrande took the time to remember.

She brushed her hand along the burned hardwood, and knew she could never forget; not the heat, nor the smoke, nor the screams of those left behind. And never, never the guilt that could still consume her at a moment’s notice for leaving them behind. Her people had needed her alive and not burning with the tree, but that didn’t make Tyrande feel any better about it.

This wasn’t really the time to be reflective about it. Once she’d passed into the Temple, the soothing presence of Elune greeted her, despite the sun outside.

Only once had her faith ever wavered. Teldrassil was a reminder of that, as well. That moment’s hesitation, before Elune had shown her dark side and given Tyrande what she’d needed to take vengeance. 

It hadn’t really been enough, in the end, but she could not fault Elune for that.

She looked around. None of the priestesses were present save Alyssa Moonsong, who was seated at a bench looking reflective.

“High Priestess?” Alyssa stood. “What is it? You’re wounded!”

She glanced down at the slight purple stain near her hip. “I’m fine. There was an attempt on my life and on the First Arcanist’s. And we were not the only ones targeted. She remained in Stormwind to gather more information, and I intend to join her once I’m assured all is well here.”

Alyssa looked down and to the left, deep in thought. “There’ve been no unusual reports on Kaldrassil or Gilneas…”

“Which is good to hear. I’ve sent sentinels to check on my ex-husband and daughter, as well as to see if Shadowsong was also targeted.”

“The Archdruid?”

“I would like her summoned back to Kaldrassil, at least until we’ve determined the extent of the danger.”

“We would not want anything to happen to any of them,” Alyssa agreed. She looked thoughtful a moment, then gestured for Tyrande to follow her. “That would explain what arrived through a portal a few minutes ago.”

Tyrande followed, curious, as Alyssa led her into a small antechamber within the temple. A bouquet of Dusk Lilies rested on a table within and her breath caught in her throat. “Thalyssra…”

She did not need to be told the symbolism behind the flowers, nor what they meant to both Thalyssra and the Nightborne.

Ten years ago. Maybe even five… she might have found some objection to the idea. But today, after the assassins and the death and the worry; it meant the world to her. She reached up and slipped the stem of the largest flower securely into her braided hair.

Alyssa smiled, resting a hand on Tyrande’s shoulder. “She thinks highly of you.”

“She does.” Tyrande felt her eyes watering, and blinked them clear.

“As do we all.” She took Tyrande’s hand with one of her own. “You may despise royal titles, but you’re a queen in all but name. The Kaldorei live and die by you, High Priestess. Were anything to happen to you…I just don’t know what I’d do. But there’s been something on my mind, something I’ve been wishing to tell you.”

“What is it, my child?”

Something bit into Tyrande’s stomach, and she looked down to see the hilt of a knife, gripped tightly in Alyssa’s hand. Lifting her eyes, she stared into _loathing_.

“My mistress wants to thank you personally for rebuilding our empire.”

Tyrande’s vision blurred, speeding up and slowing down at the same time. Energy leaked from around the knife still embedded in her stomach, energy that fluctuated and pulsed, sending violet bolts rippling around her.

And then the world shifted, and she was no longer in her temple. Cold chains snapped into place around her wrists and her legs and she was pulled down to her knees. As she struggled to make sense of what was happening, a collar closed around her throat and Elune’s presence became something distant and muted.

The knife was gone, no wound left behind, and as she started to return to her senses she realized she and Alyssa were no longer alone.

She was in a dark, damp chamber, lit by a bright white light beneath her feet, and shadowed above. The effect made it impossible for her to tell the dimensions, shape or size of the chamber, though she caught a faint bioluminescent glow above.

A figure loomed over her, and she forced herself to look up, meeting Azshara’s multitude of eyes. Alyssa grabbed Tyrande by the back of the head and shoved her down, until her forehead slammed into the ground and her vision sparked. Her acolyte’s voice was harsh and angry in a way that sounded wrong coming from her. “_Bow_ to your Queen!”

How had she so easily been fooled?

“Ah! Hello, my _pet._" Azshara’s voice sounded like a song from the deeps, promising riches and death in equal measure. “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be skipping a week so I have a chance to catch up on my buffer, so HoD will return on March 3rd!


	21. Part IV - The First Battle of Silvermoon

**Part IV**

Suramar was controlled chaos, and keeping that chaos controlled took up much of Thalyssra’s time in the wake of the assassins. She needed to know how they found their way in and managed to disable the considerable magical defenses. Not a single alarm had been tripped, not one trap sprung.

Every last one of those assassins should have been caught before the first one climbed through the kitchen window. As for how he knew that private kitchen even existed…

There were a thousand questions and no answers and it was frankly driving Thalyssra nuts that she kept coming up against a wall.

“Perhaps the High Priestess might have an opinion on this?” Valtrois was reclined in Thalyssra’s chair, her feet on the desk.

Thalyssra glanced up from a report, narrowing her eyes at Valtrois and the complimentary plate she’d helped herself to. “Don’t you have your own kitchen and your own food and your own offices down the hallway?”

“You’re closer to where I work,” Valtrois responded, offering Thalyssra a cracker.

Since it was _her_ cracker, Thalyssra took it begrudgingly. “While I value her opinion, the High Priestess has her own concerns at present.”

“Arrange a lunch meeting, help each other with each of your concerns and then afterward my offices are always open so I can help you both with _your_ concerns.”

“People are _dead_, Valtrois.”

“I’m very much _alive_ and I intend to _enjoy_ every second of it.”

Exhaling slowly while wishing Valtrois wasn’t the best mage in Suramar, Thalyssra said, “I believe it would be inappropriate to engage in any orgies at this time.”

Valtrois sat up, taking her feet off of Thalyssra’s desk. “At this time, First Arcanist? Just tell me when and where and Stellagosa and I shall be there.”

“Keep wishing for things that will never come true, Valtrois.” Thalyssra set down her reports.

“If I did not wish for things, there would be no chance for them to come true.” Valtrois leaned her chin on her fist, a smile playing at her lips.

“You really miss me at your parties, don’t you.”

Valtrois’s eyes followed Thalyssra as she started to pace through the room. For once, her voice almost took on a serious tone. “It’s _you_ I miss, Thal. And not just your _body_ or the song of your voice. I’m _glad_ we’ve left the Horde.”

“Val.”

She held up her hand and made a zipping motion. “You spent too much _time_ away from Suramar, involved in wars we had no reason to fight and atrocities that reminded me far too much of the Legion. I was afraid we’d become no better.”

Thalyssra said nothing, not because Valtrois had bid her to be silent but because she lacked the words to convey what she wanted to say. The problem was that Valtrois was right. And she was, so often, _infuriatingly_ right. 

Always one to fill the silence, Valtrois continued. “I know our hands are hardly bloodless, but there are _degrees_ to it.”

“You were very pleased when I brought up the idea of the Covenant. I thought you were just particularly enamoured of my… relationship… with the High Priestess. Why did you never _tell_ me this?”

“At first I thought the Horde had been the right choice, and I did have some measure of respect for your judgement.” Standing, Valtrois rounded the desk, stopping in front of Thalyssra and peering up at her. “And, for a time, that respect waned. At least until I recognized there was little you could do at the time to extricate us and yourself from the Warchief. And then, fortunately for us all, the war ended.”

“And if the war hadn’t ended?” Thalysrra asked. Whatever answer Valtrois gave her was one she probably wouldn’t like. “If Sylvanas had gone down a darker path?”

Valtrois chuckled, patted Thalyssra’s cheek, and then slipped past her. Only after she’d gone did Thalyssra realized she’d taken her stolen lunch with her.

**********

Scales shimmered under the starlight, shadows passing silently through the streets. Guards were taken unaware, gutted or skewered before they had a chance to call out the alarm.

It was only a twist of fate that revealed the Naga presence inside Silvermoon City. Vereesa Windrunner stepped out of a healer’s clinic with two friends, managing a smile with them despite her worry about her wife and damn near everyone else. Silvermoon City had been controlled chaos the past few days.

One of her friends laughed, the sound almost hiding the metallic scraping of drawn weapons.

_Almost_.

Vereesa twisted, leveraging the woman in her left arm out of the way of a piercing halberd, then flipping over the back of the woman’s husband. Spinning around, she kicked the nearest Naga away, drawing a throwing knife and flinging it away and up at an angle.

It struck true, ringing an alarm bell that had thus far been silent, startling a Naga that had been standing guard. 

Compared to the assassins, this was almost _relaxing_.

Other bells quickly took up the call, sounding through the city, rousing citizens and soldiers alike. The latter quickly responded and the sounds of fighting grew all around Vereesa.

With the element of surprise gone, Naga started swarming over walls and through alleyways and major thoroughfares. As quickly as the defenders responded, they were pushed back by the Naga, until Vereesa found herself at the last choke-point, putting arrow after arrow into the invaders.

If _Silvermoon_ was under attack, it was a certainty that other cities were as well. Azshara couldn’t have picked a better time, with the bulk of Compact and Covenant forces bogged down in Northrend and the leadership still reeling from the assassinations and attempts

Stromgarde would rally, but with her wife still bedridden--

A massive green fireball lit up the street, flying from behind the Naga lines to crash into the ground, scattering them like flaming ants.

At the far end of the street stood two Sin’dorei women, their arms stretched up in supplication as a multitude of imps streamed out of eight separate portals, their cackling and chatter a cacophony in the narrow streets.

The Naga paused in their assault, a sense of shock rippling through their ranks as their attention became focused on the two figures and the growing army of demons that swarmed around them. Vereesa squinted her eyes; one woman had the telltale purple energy of the portals swirling around her hands, but in the other burned green flame. She called out to the defenders, “Take cover!”

Felfire rained down from the sky as a scorching meteor crashed into the midst of the Naga. With a roar, a massive Infernal pulled itself together and just as the infernal started tearing into the Naga, the imps unleashed a thousand bolts of felfire. The sound and smell of roasting nagaflesh was nauseating.

“I haven’t seen a scene like this since the last time the Legion came.” 

Vereesa nodded in agreement with the guard captain who’d spoken. “They’re on our side at least, this time.” Raising her voice, she cried out, “To me!”

Without waiting to see if anyone responded, she flipped over the barricade, landing on top of a Naga and shooting an arrow through the top of his head. As he fell, Vereesa rolled off of his body, narrowing ducking under a bolt of mage lightning. That Naga was also quickly felled by her arrow, as Vereesa became the point in the wedge that Silvermoon’s defenders carved through the Naga on one side, while the warlocks and their minions kept the Naga pinned with no way out.

It was a slaughter. The guards and soldiers and even Vereesa herself were completely caught up in exacting vengeance for the attack on Silvermoon, blood for blood and the wounded pride on top of it all. Vereesa ran out of arrows quickly, reduced to sword and knife and even teeth at least twice. 

By the time she’d cut down the last of the Naga, most of the imps had returned to the Nether and the Infernal was a smoldering crater in the center of the street. Naga blood dripped from her face and hands, and she ran a hand down her stomach carefully. Oh, Cene was going to kill her when she found out she’d fought…

She looked up and around them. They would have to clean up the mess, and then count and mourn their dead. But for now there were more pressing matters.

Lomea and Elyndris Shadowbinder waited for her. Lomea in particular looked bored, though Vereesa’s keen eye could see the effort had drained them both. “I’d heard you’d retired to some South Seas island.”

“We were visiting my mother-in-law,” Lomea replied in a tone that was dryer than Uldum. “The Naga proved to be _much_ better company.”

Elyndris elbowed her wife, but didn’t actually offer any objections.

“Whatever the reason, I’m glad you were here. Our losses were mounting.” Vereesa hadn’t wanted to be the _second_ Windrunner to lose Silvermoon.

“If they’ve attacked here, they may have attacked elsewhere.” Lomea tapped her finger against her lip. “Are there any mages still strong enough to cast portals?”

“One or two I think.” Vereesa nodded. “You go to Orgrimmar, Elyndris to Stormwind. I’ll send others to Kaldrassil, Suramar and Thunder Bluff. Once I’m certain the situation is handled here I’ll return to Stromgarde.”

“A _wise_ decision.” Lomea tilted her head. “And congratulations.”

**********

“Either Azshara is involved in the attacks on our leadership, or she is merely taking advantage of a golden opportunity. Either way, we are _vulnerable._”

Liadrin nodded, agreeing with the Warchief’s assessment. “The attack on Silvermoon was a distraction; another force almost breached the Sunwell.” She leaned on the war table, gritting her teeth. “I should have been there.”

“Yes, you should have.” Sylvanas regarded her with an unreadable expression on her face. 

“If I recall, that scouting mission had been suggested by you, specifically.”

“It was.” 

Liadrin forced herself to unclench her teeth as she reminded herself that murdering the Warchief was only _sometimes_ okay. “It was only a matter of luck and a few well placed Champions that allowed us to hold both the city and the Sunwell. But if the Naga are going for a source of power like that, it stands to reason that they may make a move for somewhere else. The Nightwell, weakening as it was, or the Well of Eternity. Were they to gain control of even _one_ of those, let alone more, it would be catastrophic for the rest of us.”

Sylvanas inclined her head to Liadrin. “That is something we cannot allow. Discussions will be had with the Covenant about securing both the Nightwell and the Well of Eternity. I do not like that they control _both_, but that cannot be helped for now. In the meantime, we can take care of our own. I want you to oversee an increase in city defenses, as well as those of the Sunwell, Regent Lord.”

“The Sunwell will be easy enough, I am thinking about commandeering a gunship or—-_Regent Lord_?!”

“You are the most qualified candidate available to rule Quel'thalas,” Sylvanas explained, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Liadrin could name at least three others but Sylvanas didn’t give her the chance. “As the Lady of Light, the people already look up to you. You command the loyalties of some of the most powerful paladins in the world. They would follow your every command, and in the days ahead we will need that loyalty more than _ever_.”

Pursing her lips, Liadrin stared Sylvanas down. She knew she couldn’t talk Sylvanas out of this nor would she actually turn such a duty down. But that didn't mean she couldn’t get a concession. “I’ll step up, but I have some conditions.”

Almost as if she’d expected that, Sylvanas replied, “Out with it.”

“I want to rebuild the western half of Silvermoon.”

“And what of the Dead Scar? Nothing can grow there, nothing can _live_ there. Even the Forsaken find it … uncomfortable.”

“There has been discussion over the years on ways to cleanse it. I would like to make arrangements with the Cenarion Circle and the Silver Hand both, as well as druids, shaman and light users across the three primary factions.” Liadrin pressed her hand to her chest. “It has been almost _thirty years_. It’s time, Sylvanas. We have to try.”

If Liadrin hadn’t been looking directly at Sylvanas, she would have missed the almost shocked blink, as though she hadn’t realized how long it had been. Liadrin couldn’t blame her; there were nights it felt like it had happened yesterday, and days where it seemed a thousand years had passed.

“Agreed. It _is_ time.” Sylvanas gestured, “There’ll be a formal ceremony in a few days; for now, make safe Quel'thalas. I’ll have Ja—_someone_ draw up the necessary requests to the Circle and Silver Hand while I personally deal with the First Arcanist and Archdruid.”

Liadrin pretended she hadn’t heard the slip. “I understand securing the Wells takes precedence. My Knights have already been stationed around the Sunwell.”

“Increase security further.” Sylvanas waved her hand in dismissal.

Though Liadrin knew better, she couldn’t help but ask, “When _can_ we expect Lady Proudmoore to return?”

At least she had the sense not to make that an _if_, or Sylvanas might have _literally_ swiveled her head three-hundred and sixty degrees. As it was the rage passed over the Warchief’s face in a flash. “The Lady shall return when she has completed her task.”

“Her task?”

“Yes.” Sylvanas pinned Liadrin with a gaze best described as agitated. “Now, would you _kindly_ return to SIlvermoon?”

**********

Tyrande would not allow herself to break. It did not matter what Azshara might have planned for her; she’d seen worse and lived through worse, some of it _at_ Azshara’s hands. She wished she’d managed to kill her the day they’d put down the Old God.

The white light had dimmed, leaving only a faint bioluminescence below and above her. But despite the dimness, she was not without sight. Closing her eyes. Tyrande could hear the water, and she could feel the tides being pulled by the moon. And through those tides, through that connection, Tyrande found her solace. Calmness and rage, peace and anger. The duality of the moon, the light and the dark.

Those same tides whispered to her of her visitor, before the door swiveled open. Tyrande’s lip curled. “_Acolyte._”

“High Priestess, now,” Alyssa said, the door closing behind her. Her voice dripped with haughty disdain.

“Oh. _High Priestess._. I am so proud of you.” Tyrande opened her eyes. With the bioluminescence casting a faint glow above and below her, they were now the darkest thing in this prison. “How long have you been in her thrall?”

“I have worshipped my Queen since I was old enough to walk, Tyrande.” Alyssa stood at the edge of the pit Tyrande knelt in. She looked down at her with an unfamiliar contempt on her face. Her ears had changed, resembling more the fins of the Naga than that of a true Kaldorei, and her hair had been pulled into an elaborate updo.

Tyrande had trusted this woman and she’d been a snake all along. “Did you work alone, or is my priesthood filled with vipers?”

Alyssa laughed, then stepped back from the edge, turning to leave. “My Queen shall see to you soon. I would recommend that you do not resist, but I rather hope that you do.” She flashed her teeth in a toothy smile, fangs glinting in the faint light. “Worry not, traitor. It will be just like old times.”

The betrayal cut deep, not just because she’d liked the woman. Tyrande hand-selected her top acolytes. Alyssa had been the best she’d seen in _three centuries,_ and now she questioned her own judgement. It was something to worry about later, and she could not allow Alyssa to know she’d cut her so deeply.

Alyssa paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “I hope she keeps you alive long enough to see me take my rightful place as spiritual leader of our Empire.”

The only response Tyrande was willing to give her was silence, and the same smile that promised exactly how she was going to end the woman’s life.


	22. Propositions and Preparations

Ice cracked, the sound loud like thunder over the still water. Until, slowly, inexorably, an entire sheet started to slide off the glacier and crash into the bay.

Jaina stood on a rickety old fishing dock, staring out towards the sea and scarcely noticing the collapsing ice. Her eyes were closed, and her voice rose, and it rose and it rose, carried across the sea and the tundra, a song on the breeze. 

She opened her eyes, the fierce blue shining brighter than ever.

And somewhere in the distance, a thousand thousand voices joined her song.

As her last note faded away, the water rippled. Jaina sighed, knowing who it was before Azshara rose out of the frigid sea. “What do you want?”

“Your song was beautiful,” Azshara said. “Have you considered my offer?”

“I am the flame, and you the moth, your so-called majesty,” Jaina replied. She felt, suddenly more confident in herself than she had been since her death. She’d killed the Lich King. She was ready to go home, and Azshara was not her home. 

“Power draws power, little one. Imagine ours combined?”

“I have,” Jaina replied. “And I would _drown_ you.”

Azshara shrugged one beautiful shoulder, slithering towards Jaina. Jaina held her ground, chin high, a little less confident in her ability to go one on one with the Naga Queen than she was letting on.

“I’ve had my eye on you for so long. You’d reject my gift so easily?”

“I was never going to accept it.” Jaina closed her fist, ice creeping up Azshara’s body to immobilize her. “And I wasn’t singing for _you_.”

She lifted her hand, calling forth another spell. Azshara shattered her ice prison, calling up a shield before Jaina’s lance could harm her. Her counterspell knocked the wind for Jaina, sending her crashing to the ground and skidding six meters, a large gash in the permafrost in her wake.

Rolling to her feet, Jaina threw another spell at Azshara, a fireball of considerable size. It appeared to mist, only for it to curve around and strike the Queen in the back. Her resulting scream of pain and rage sent more ice crashing into the bay.

They traded blows, clashing like two warriors only with spells instead of steel. Jaina called heavily on fire, hoping to scorch and burn Azshara, pushing her towards the sea while avoiding Azshara’s bursts of pure arcane.

Something in the runes gave Jaina an idea, and the next time Azshara summoned her power, Jaina used it against her. Time slowed, and then stopped, and then started to run in reverse.

As soon as time righted itself again, Jaina dropped an iceberg on Azshara’s head.

When the snow and dust cleared, Azshara had retreated, seeming to accept Jaina’s answer. She doubted it was actually over, and it had felt way too easy. 

But for now, she put Azshara out of her mind as she heard multitudes of footsteps behind her. Jaina turned and smiled.

She reached out with her hand and said in a strong, clear voice. “It’s okay. It’s _finally_ okay. I’m going to take you home.”

*********

“It sounds like it didn’t go very well,” Tyrande remarked, tilting her head and listening to the distant sounds of Azshara’s voice. The Queen was raging, and she was certain anyone who got in her way would suffer painfully for it.

She supposed it was why Alyssa had deigned to visit her again. “Our Queen has her plans, and they are all in motion. Don’t you worry your little head about it, Tyrande.”

“Harassing Proudmoore seems to be at the top of her list.” Better that than moving against anyone else. Perhaps a little harsh calculation, but one she thought Jaina would make too.

Alyssa’s eyes slid to the doorway, and Tyrande strained her ears. The storm was moving in their direction at a rapid clip, and she squared her shoulders and prepared herself for anything. They had yet to torture her, which in some ways was worse. It was the anticipation, the thought that at any moment or any time her existence would become little more than white hot pain, all for Azshara’s pleasure.

The longer it took them, however, the stronger Tyrande became. Here in this place deep beneath the sea they thought they’d cut her off from her Goddess; they were wrong.

Tyrande’s blood moved with the tides. It strengthened her, gave her solace. Elune had not abandoned her.

Azshara swept into the cell, and the first thing Tyrande noticed was the gash on her forehead. Though it was probably unwise, she grinned, feral and dangerous. “I see the Lady of Orgrimmar gave you her answer. I hope it scars your _perfect_ face.”

The slap from one of Azshara’s tentacles was so sudden and so hard that Tyrande would have been thrown across the cell if she wasn’t chained to the floor. The taste of blood filled her senses, and she licked her lips. Now that was more what she’d expected.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Azshara said, inspecting her nails and absolutely _radiating_ contrition. “But I’ve had a day.” One of her eyes fixed on Alyssa, and she slid two tentacles around her to draw her close.

Really? Right in front of her? “Yes, this is how you reward your favorite … what’s that charming human phrase? Brownnosers.”

Ignoring her, Azshara placed a kiss on Alyssa’s brow. “See to the preparations, High Priestess.” 

Alyssa bowed low, and then stepped out of the cell. Tyrande was now alone with Azshara, and busied herself with imagining stringing her up by her own limbs. “Preparations?”

“I am going to tell you a story.” Azshara slowly started to move around the outer ring of the cell as she spoke. Her voice took on the tone and cadence of someone who loved the sound of their own voice. “Once, there was a Queen.”

Tyrande rolled her eyes. Her lip and nose were still bleeding, but she let that fuel her. With every beat of her heart, Elune called.

“She was a good, and proud Queen, but she was betrayed by the people she loved and cast into exile. As a result of this, her empire fell.”

A tendril crept up Tyrande’s back, and then slithered loosely around her throat. She remained perfectly still.

“This once glorious empire became a shadow of its former glory, split among kingdoms who warred without the Queen’s strong leadership.”

Goddess, she already knew it, had always known; but Azshara was _insane._ Did she actually believe this was what happened?

“But, it so happened one of the Queen's _favorite_ disciples went into an alliance with another, and started to draw the Empire back together.” 

“I was never—” The tendril squeezed and Tyrande bit her tongue.

“The Covenant of the Skies,” Azshara purred. She was in front of Tyrande again, and close, far too close. “I could not have chosen a better name for my arisen empire. The moon, the stars, and, I assume, eventually the _sun_. Does Windrunner know that you and Thalyssra have made overtures to the Sin’dorei, seeking to bring them under your banner? _I_ do, and I didn’t even need my Alyssa to find out.”

“It is no empire,” Tyrande rasped. The tendril squeezed until she could barely breathe.

“Not yet. Creating such a thing requires a _true_ queen, one with...vision. But your service in the realm of more banal arrangements that would have been beneath me has been adequate. _All_ the foundations are in place.” Azshara’s eyes were the only thing in Tyrande’s vision. “Thanks to you, I shall reclaim my rightful place as ruler of this world.”

*********

Tyra didn’t often visit the Echo Islands, especially with the whole mysterious mess with the Scourge, and now the Naga. But she had a mission here, and she did like the place. It was neat!

There was another reason she was here, one decidedly less neat, as she walked alongside the line of mules and squinted in the direction of their handler. Well. Here she goes. “I’ve been meanin’ ta speak with ya ‘bout sommat.”

“Speak all y’like,” Ihz said evenly, without looking up from the harness she was cleaning.

Tyra rubbed the back of her neck. “S’bout the Darkspear.”

The look the Troll gave her would have stopped a beating heart. Fortunately, Tyra hadn’t had one of those in 20 years. She pressed on. “They need a leader, an’—” 

“No.” Ihz rubbed warm oil into the breastband slightly harder than Tyra thought was probably necessary, but didn’t otherwise react..

“There ain’t a one of them you haven’t helped over the years. They’d look to ya.”

_“No.”_ The shaggy dog in the shade nearby glanced up at the edge in his mistress’ voice. “I’m a courier.”

“The Warchief—“

Tyra hadn’t earned her Champion’s title just for being cute and charming. She’d noted the holdout horse crossbow as she approached, and she saw the tell of Ihz snagging the weapon and snapping it up; if she’d needed to, Tyra could have disarmed her before she got the chance.

She didn’t bother; even if she thought Jaina’s friend was the type to pull the trigger, she’d _also_ noticed that the safety was still on. For someone who claimed not to do politics, this girl sure knew how to send the exact message she wanted.

Prolly a good skill for a mail carrier, that.

“You fight in Pandaria?” Ihz demanded shortly, then continued without waiting for a response. “Vol’jin’s rebellion? Y’be thinkin’ it was honor an’ courage put weapons in his hands, the early days with Hellscream’s people swarming the woods? You know the difference lumber made on Draenor? You haul that shit in yourself? Or—just letters, every day. Figureheads change an’ wars start and stop and people need to write their brothers, or—order wool, send money for guild fees an’ grandma’s healer. Windrunner couldn’t do my job, mon. Last time a Warchief forgot what really keeps the Horde alive, your Lady was one of the first in line to bring him down. Ask me again, I sic the dogs on you.”

Tyra sighed heavily. “Had ta try.”

Ihz made an unimpressed sound and set the crossbow aside. Silently, Tyra sat down in the sand and picked up a sweat-stained halter, managing to follow Ihz’s lead enough to not get yelled at. Much.

The sun was starting to sink over the horizon, and Tyra paused to admire the view. Her world had been a hazy shade of grey since the day she’d died, though she could not see a bit more green and blue, since Syvlanas had made her her Champion. It was still a nice view, though it didn’t compare to the vivid sunsets of her memories. “Wish Kalira were here...I’m feelin’ all romantical.”

Ihz stared at her a moment, then glanced at the sunset herself. If she was going through memories of her own, Tyra couldn’t really tell. Movement in the water to the east distracted her; a large crab scuttling about in the shallows. Might make a good snack… “Hey Ihz, shoot that an’ I’ll cook it up for ya. Too bad Lady Proudmoore ain’t here, she loves crab…”

Ihz snorted and picked up her bow. It was a simple bow, with little ornamentation, but well cared for and well used. She nocked an arrow, drew it back— 

Just before she fired, a Naga burst out of the water behind the crab.

The arrow struck him in the throat and then Ihz was unloading more arrows as Naga swarmed the beach. There were dozens, maybe hundreds of them, and Tyra rolled her shoulders as she swung her greatsword off of her back.

_“Cut the string loose!_ Chervil, _mark!”_

Ihz pinioned a Naga pikeman in the shoulder, her dog leaping to finish it off. Tyra ran for the mules, trying to urge them into fleeing and hoping someone in the village would sound the alarm. She squared her shoulders and bellowed in a voice that would have made the Dark Lady proud, “_NAGA ATTACK!_”

Sure enough, resident Trolls and the odd Orc and Goblin came running out, weapons at the ready. Trusting Ihz to take care of herself and her animals, Tyra sliced a Naga sorceress in two and jumped onto a rock. From her new vantage point, she got a better idea of what they were dealing with.

Her eyes widened and she whispered, “Oh hell. We’re _fucked_.”

*********

Thalyssra tapped her fingers on the edge of the table, staring at the bowl of water that rested there. This was… odd. Usually Tyrande answered her pretty quickly when she scryed like this. Thalyssra had found it easier than the radio network set up by champion Ravenwing; and she liked how personal it felt.

“Damn it.” She tried again, with an extra flourish to her hand and arm movements, but the liquid remained opaque and unreadable. Tyrande’s face did not appear as she’d hoped.

“You look ridiculous.”

“I’ve tried four times in as many hours and she’s not responding.”

“You act like a three hundred year old girl in love,” Valtrois commented. She glided over, peering into the scrying bowl. “Interesting.”

“What do you mean interesting?

“It’s not connecting with Kaldrassil.”

Thalyssra threw her hands up. “Whatever would I do without your counsel.”

Valtrois rolled her eyes. “The spell,” she explained with exaggerated patience, “is attempting to locate the High Priestess, who should be in Kaldrassil. But the arcane coordinates and leyline signature are all wrong. I can’t identify more than that.” She sounded annoyed by the admission. “That information is shielded from our magics.”

Thalyssra blinked, and took a closer look. Sure enough… “Damn, how did I miss that?”

“Fresh eyes, darling.”

There was a crunching sound that Thalyssra pretended not to notice. “Then where the hell is she? Maybe Greymane might know.”

She changed the spell, directing it to Gilneas proper this time. The water swirled and bubbled until a form took shape in it. “King Greymane?”

“First Arcanist.” Genn adjusted his tunic and nodded his head in greeting. 

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m unable to get in contact with Tyrande. My scrying spell keeps getting redirected elsewhere, but we’re unable to ascertain exactly how or where. Have you spoken with her lately?”

“Not since last week, when we were all in Stormwind after…” He didn’t need to finish. 

“After everyone was attacked, yes.” Thalyssra felt a small amount of panic tighten her chest. Why hadn’t she checked on Tyrande? What kind of friend and ally was she? What kind of _lover_ was she?

If something had happened to Tyrande and she never got to tell her— her thoughts were interrupted by an aide rushing in. “First Arcanist! There’s been an attack!”

“What?” Both she and Genn spoke at the same time. The aide nodded. “Multiple Naga attacks on several fronts. The Echo Isles were obliterated and Orgrimmar is struggling to reclaim them. Attacks in Ratchet, Gadgetstan and Gromgar Outpost have been repelled but are expecting further strikes.”

“Kaldrassil?”

“All quiet, but they’ve been warned.”

Thalyssra turned back to the bowl. “What about the Alliance?”

Genn was busy fielding a page of his own, and returned to Thalyssra after several moments. “They’ve attacked several Alliance towns, as well as Stromgarde. Their largest force now controls the docks at Stormwind.”

It sounded like a diversion. It probably _was_ a diversion. Thalyssra closed her eyes, calculating the total forces Suramar and Kaldrassil could bring to bear. 

As co-leader of the Covenant, the Kaldorei would respond to her order.

She opened her eyes. “King Greymane, since Tyrande appears to be missing, I shall send a small contingent of Mages to Kaldrassil to teleport a platoon of Sentinels to Durotar and assist the Horde in reclaiming the Echo Isles. They will then report to Stormwind to reinforce the defenders there; they can take any of your forces with them that are willing.”

Genn was silent for a long moment, staring at her through the scrying connection, before he nodded. “I’ll task a scouting party with determining where the High Priestess is. You and I shall meet in Stormwind.”

“Agreed.” Thalyssra pushed the bowl away and leaned on the table. “Valtrois?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Can you ask Stellagosa to join you here in the city? I leave its defense to the two of you, should this prove to be some kind of diversion.”

Valtrois nodded. “The attack during the last war still stings. I am prepared, this time.”

While Thalyssra didn’t doubt it, the question still remained:

Prepared for _what?_


	23. Sea of the Dead

Valeera folded her arms, leaning against the wall of the Violet Hold meeting room with her eyes closed while the others discussed the reports coming in. She hadn’t expected the Naga to be a problem any time soon, and she’d still been dealing with the mysteries surrounding the Scourge and their sudden disappearance. 

Belaris was of no help; she no longer had a link with the Scourge, and the trauma of being under their sway didn’t make her particularly useful at this time. She sat in the corner, eyes forward but distant, ignoring anything around her, even her own wife. Most of the Death Knights, at least those who hadn’t disappeared into the wilds, seemed to be a little at a loss. Valeera preferred that they look to their own healing before trying to help anyone else.

“Orgrimmar has encountered stiff resistance in the Echo Isles,” Alleria was saying. 

“There’s a report of a Naga presence at the old temple in Azshara.” Archmage Lissibeth added. She’d been intercepting and relaying magical communications for about an hour now. “Naga have been sighted in Gilneas and near Kaldrassil as well. King Greymane has his hands full dealing with a strike force in the city.”

“Anything from Lady Liadrin?” Valeera asked, still not opening her eyes.

“Azshara sent only a token force; it appears the bulk of her armies are farther south. There’s fierce fighting in Stormwind.”

Valeera’s ears twitched. She worried about Anduin, more than she even worried about Liadrin and Silvermoon. But she contained her worry. “I think we need to help, Alleria. You report to Stormwind, and I’ll assist the Horde at the Echo Isles. It’s unlikely that Azshara won’t make an attempt to attack Orgrimmar from there. I’ll scout the docks and harbor first, before making my way south.”

A’sooka stood up suddenly. “I’ll go with you. I need to … do something.”

Belaris grabbed A’sooka’s hand suddenly, her eyes returning to focus. “No. We need to go to Stormwind.”

Alleria’s jaw tightened and she shared a look with Valeera. “I’ll go help my sister. You take them to Stormwind.”

Lissibeth tilted her head towards Belaris, even as she called up a pair of portals. “Why are you so certain?”

“I don’t know…” She squared her shoulders, then looked at A’sooka. “But it feels like the right thing to do.”

**********

Stormwind Harbor snapped into focus, and Thalyssra cursed loudly as she got a good view from the vantage point in the hills overlooking it. The Naga controlled the docks and had pushed as far as the Cathedral district. She narrowed her eyes trying to get a sense of the numbers involved. Without an endless supply of Old God minions, Azshara only had finite resources, but they appeared to be considerable. And based on this and other reports, the bulk were here in Stormwind.

“It seems like Azshara intends to crush the Alliance first,” she murmured. “I’m sure the Warchief will feel insulted over that.”

She might have felt the same; Suramar had been mostly ignored, and hopefully Kaldrassil too, save the absence of Tyrande, which Thalyssra could only assume was related and she very much hoped was busy keeping the Naga at bay. A fool’s hope, but one she clung to for now, “Lets move in behind them and see if we can’t pull some pressure off of King Wrynn’s forces.”

One of her mages cast a fireball that scattered the Naga near one of the docks; and then another, a Kaldorei Highborne, teleported them all to that spot.

They weren’t the Legion. And they weren’t the Alliance. But the Naga were still fierce fighters and skilled spell-flingers, and Thalyssra knew her force would be hard pressed if the Stormwind fighters didn’t press their sudden advantage.

The amount of magic in the air was overwhelming her senses, and no matter how many Naga they killed there seemed to be two more to take their place. 

She knew she and the rest of her mage strike force only had a limited time before they’d be too drained to be effective, so she gave the order to push through. Thalyssra tasked two mages to provide constant shield cover, and then took point herself. “Make for the Cathedral. We’ll carve a path straight through and pave the way with their bodies.”

You could leave the Horde, but sometimes, the Horde stayed with you. 

Energy crackled around Thalyssra’s hands before she unleashed a storm of arcane lightning up the stairs leading to the docks from the city proper.

As she’d hoped and expected, it cleared a path for them. She lagged behind, setting up barriers and magical traps to make it difficult, if not impossible, for the Naga to follow them up the stairs. Thalyssra was just getting the last spell in place when the Naga started to move aside for an approaching figure. She glanced back at her mages. “Keep going, I’ll be right behind you!”

Looking back, she noted the figure walked rather than slithered on a scaley tail. The woman wore a face mask that obscured her features and made her look like some creature from the darkest depths of the sea. In coloring, her robes were silver and black, exposing most of her skin to the elements and leaving little else to the imagination. Skin that had taken on a texture like scales, color shifting in a way that reminded her of coral.

The woman looked directly at Thalyssra and removed her mask. Alyssa Moonsong smiled at her, exuding the sort of smugness that reminded Thalyssra of the very worst of the Nightborne. 

“No…”

The changes were dramatic; besides her skin, her ears resembled fins, her hair was longer and more voluminous, and her eyes…

It was like looking into Azshara’s.

Enraged, Thalyssra called up her power and prepared to launch herself at the _traitor_. Two things stopped her; first, someone grabbed her arm. And then a horn blew. 

It wasn’t an Alliance or Horde horn and it wasn’t the distinctive owl-like sound adopted by the Covenant. 

It was cold, and barren, the horn of winter heralding an oncoming blizzard.

She turned to look at the mage who’d stopped her. The man’s eyes were wide as plates and his voice shook. “Scourge? Here? Now?”

Thalyssra had no real explanation for it. The last reports had been inconclusive about what had happened in Northrend and who, if anyone, was in control. Had this all been part of Azshara’s plan? Did _she_ now control the Scourge?

As Thalyssra mulled it over, she returned her attention to Alyssa and the Naga. In the space of those few moments, more Naga had come out of the ocean and Moonsong’s smug smile had only gotten worse.

Forcing herself to calm down, Thalyssra turned away from Alyssa, though she kept a magical shield up should the former acolyte decide to stab her in the back literally rather than figuratively. “Quickly, we need to meet up with the city defenders. Champion, run ahead to warn them there are more Naga, and keep an eye out for any citizens that might be in hiding.”

“Of course, First Arcanist.” The mage bowed, and then quickly ran the rest of the way up the stairs.

What, exactly, they were going to do while pincered between Scourge and Naga was a question that needed an answer sooner rather than later. For the time being, Thalyssra pushed that into the same locked box in her mind where questions and spiking concerns about Tyrande and Kaldrassil resided.

**********

It was Anduin’s birthday, though once he’d become King he’d pretty much stopped counting or caring about them. There was too much to worry and stress about to care about the passing of years; it had actually taken him a few minutes, when he’d gotten up earlier in the day, to remember if this was his 35th or 36th birthday.

He’d inherited the throne very young, and faced the Legion _and_ the Horde before he was twenty. It was a miracle he wasn’t all grey, though as he’d stared at himself in the mirror he could see the beginnings of grey in his beard, barely distinguishable from the blonde.

Which was exactly what he needed, really.

The morning itself had been uneventful. There’d been a few letters and gifts waiting; something from Valeera, another thing passed along from Jaina via a champion, who’d told him she’d been holding onto it for months.

Anduin tried not to think too much about that, and wished he could speak to Jaina; particularly now that his birthday had quickly degenerated into one crisis after another. First the news of Naga attacks around the world, and then the attack on Stormwind itself.

Almost as soon as he’d received word of the other strikes he’d ordered the civilians to evacuate or to shelter, and moved guards and soldiers to the coast. While Stormwind had built shelters similar to those of Orgrimmar, Anduin had wanted to give his people a choice in where they went.

Most stayed put, though a few evacuated east to Goldshire and beyond. Those civilians who were willing to lift a weapon had been positioned deeper in the city as last lines of defense. 

Champions had mined the harbor, and the mines exploding had been the first warning that the Naga had come for Stormwind. Things had quickly descended into chaos from there. 

There were just too many of them, and everywhere Anduin and the defenders turned there seemed to be a dozen Naga waiting for them. Slowly but surely, they were pushed out of the docks and fighting devolved into bloody battles in alleys and other choke points. Anduin conserved his energy and power to heal the soldiers and champions who were holding the line.

And hold the line they must. Much further and the city itself could fall. As he helped a pink-haired gnome warrior to her feet, Anduin stared at the south entrance to the Cathedral. “We need more barriers.”

“Most of our mages are out of juice.” The gnome inspected a hole in her armor, “but I think we’ve still got a few Shaman in reserve, sir.”

“Good, have them create walls or lava pools in a way that will funnel all the Naga into this courtyard.” Better to have a city to repair than to lose it. As the warrior ran off, he looked around. If he was going to order the city evacuated it would have to be—

Energy rippled through the air and one of the hunters on the wall called out. “Shal’dorei reinforcements have arrived! They’re engaging the enemy!”

“Everyone, with me!” Anduin picked his sword up and squeezed the hilt. “Let’s meet them halfway!”

There were only a few Naga between the south entrance to the district and the docks; as Anduin led the way he could see shaman already beginning to raise walls of earth and create chasms filled with lava. His heart tightened, but he ignored the emotion.

Stormwind was used to damage and repairs by now.

They hadn’t gotten more than a half dozen meters before a horn blew. The kind of horn that sent a chill down Anduin’s spine.

“You!” Anduin called out to the gnome from earlier. “You’re in command, meet up with the Shal’dorei and hold the line here.”

“Aye aye!” She turned around and then bellowed with a volume that belied her small stature. “Move out!”

Anduin was already running, the horn sounding again, closer this time. His lungs and legs burned by the time he reached the Eastern walls and climbed to the watchtower. What he was greeted with froze his blood; lines of Scourge marching through a foggy forest, their true numbers obscured by the trees. There could be dozens. Hundreds. _Thousands_. And they’d come through Elwynn Forest with no warning.

Out of the mists that further hid both Scourge and forest came the prow of a rotted Vrykul longship, floating ominously above the canopy. A dragon skull was mounted like a figurehead, the sails tattered and torn, sundered and shattered shields lining either side of the ship. And standing at the rudder were two figures. One suddenly jumped overboard, swiftly transforming into a large frostwyrm. 

The sails on the longship billowed, picking up a haunted wind, and Jaina Proudmoore threw out her hand.

Roaring in response, the rattling bones and leathery beat of the Frostwyrm sent it racing towards Stormwind, the Scourge army breaking into a run for the gates.


	24. Forsaken

It looked much like the tide rushing in. The Scourge hit the walls and went over it, or through the gates, the defenders too shocked or terrified to shut them. But instead of attacking, the Scourge flooded the streets, rushing, rushing and running and clattering towards the Cathedral District and then the docks beyond. 

Swooping low, the Frost Wyrm let loose with a breath of ice and cleared a line through the Naga.

Jaina brought her longship in, barely missing the bell tower, and positioned it over the main Naga force. And then she stepped off of it and dropped like a stone, hitting the ground and sending a wave of frost in every direction. Before the Naga had a chance to recover she waded in, sweeping her runestaff out in front of her and casting rapid-fire spells.

She heard Thalyssra’s voice over the din, ordering her mages into position, and Stormwind soldiers rushed in to join in pushing back the Naga.

“Jaina!”

“Yes, Anduin?” She turned to look at him, flinging a fireball without bothering to look the Naga she was incinerating.

“What the hell?” He gestured with his sword at the undead swarming over the Naga. “How?”

Jaina ran a hand down her braid. 

_She stood with the icy bay to her back, staring down an endless sea of the undead. Some were fresh from their graves, others had wandered the wastelands for decades. In each of them she felt a spark, screaming deep within them for freedom._

_Had this been how Tyra, Kalira and Nathanos had looked the day Sylvanas had freed them? Had this been how they’d all_ felt_?_

_Jaina lifted her arms, and reached out to them. She felt their despair and their loneliness as her own, she felt their rage and sadness, she latched onto hopes and dreams long dormant. “The greatest lie ever told was that there must always be a Lich King.”_

_And those sparks ignited.  
_

She let go of her braid, squaring her shoulders. To remind everyone of who she was. Lord Admiral. Lady of Orgrimmar. And… “The Scourge is no more, Anduin. They are free. They are, as am I, _Forsaken_.”

The King looked at her, truly _looked_ at her. And then he nodded. “Okay.”

Thalyssra joined them. “There’s something very wrong with these Naga. I haven’t been able to place what it is exactly.”

“Work with me,” Jaina suggested, holding out her hand. “Anduin, if you would watch our backs?”

“Gladly.”

With Thaylssra’s hand joined with hers, Jaina closed her eyes. “There’s a great deal of energy in the air. Far more than can be explained by our magics alone.”

“We can pinpoint it together.”

“Will … they lose control without you?”

Jaina smiled. “They follow me because they choose to, not because I commanded them to.”

She focused on the arcane that Stormwind appeared to be drowning in. It was _everywhere_, yet focused in specific points and groups, and moving—-

Her eyes snapped open and she exchanged a look with Thalyssra who said, “_Fuck_!”. 

“Eloquent,” Jaina remarked. “Together?”

“Yes.” 

Jaina swept her arm down as Thalyssra did the same, sending magic rippling through Stormwind. Like balloons pricked with a needle, the Naga started to pop, leaving behind only purple residue and little over a dozen of the flesh and blood variety.

It was a simple matter to mop up the stragglers, but Jaina’s eyes were drawn to the sea, and her ears picked up something that sounded a lot like singing. It wasn’t Azshara’s voice, which she was unfortunately familiar with by now, but it reminded her of songs she’d heard shortly after she’d died; and older songs still, late at night in Kul Tiras and Theramore.

“It can’t have been...” Thalyssra murmured to herself. 

Water started to rise in the bay, burning ships sliding down the mounting waive to crash into the docks. In the center of it was a figure, a woman, hard to make out. Not Azshara’s silhouette, but similar. Her song reached a crescendo, and the wave crashed towards the city. 

Jaina ran towards it, holding her hands up as if she could somehow stop it by sheer force of will alone. The wave stalled, the wall of water shuddering, her eyes flaring as she drew deep into her reserves of power, and pushed it back. It broke, splashing harmless apart, most of the water falling back into the bay and the rest soaking everyone and everything from the docks to the Cathedral district. 

The singing woman screamed before she hit the water, and Jaina knew she would be gone before they could get to her.

“Illusions?” Anduin wiped the water from his face. “We’ve been fighting illusions this whole time?”

“Yes. Solid enough to still cause harm.” Thalyssra folded her arms, seeming to be upset about something. “And I should have figured it out immediately, but I was too distracted. We could have ended this much sooner if I had.”

She turned her attention to Jaina, and the undead that now awkwardly shuffled around them. 

“I’ll explain later,” Jaina said. “Right now it’s obvious this attack was the diversion.”

“It’s likely the Durotar attack is as well,” Anduin mused. He nodded at Thalyssra, though Jaina could tell the undead unnerved him, “You left Suramar in good hands?”

“Yes, I don’t think it’s a likely target.” Her throat bobbed, “Most of the other attacks were pushed back as well. It could be she’s making another attempt on the Sunwell.”

“Let’s consider the options,” Jaina said. “Places of power she doesn’t already have access to. The Sunwell, the Well of Eternity, the Nightwell, Kaldrassil…”

“The Nightwell’s power has been slowly draining over the years, it’s barely a third of what it once was,” Thalyssra pointed out.

“Still, that makes it a target.”

“What places of power remain in Northrend are out of Azshara’s reach,” Jaina said. She hadn’t needed the bulk of the former Scourge for this; and they were just numerous enough, and the sources just weak enough, that Azshara would likely ignore it for now.

“Both the Horde and Alliance have made overtures to protecting some of these sources of power,” Anduin said. “If the Nightwell was in trouble, Thalyssra likely would have received a message by now. If it’s the Well of Eternity, there are enough druids in Stormwind I’d have been informed.”

“Last I heard there was only a token effort at the Sunwell.” Thalyssra pinned her ears back. “Which leaves Kaldrassil.”

“In any event, I’ll take my forces north.” Jaina looked back at them, then waved her hand. Kiry landed in a swirl of frost and joined her. “We march to Kaldrassil.”

Kiry nodded, though her eyes remained on the living. Jaina frowned, then indicated the Frost Wyrm. “This is Kirygosa. She was the first to join me.”

“_You_ would turn a Frost Wyrm,” Thalyssra said. “I’ll teleport to Suramar and gather my armies. Once we have confirmation that Kaldrassil is the real target, I’ll begin teleporting them to Gilneas.”

“I’ll send a message to Genn.” Anduin eyed Kiry. “At the very least to warn him the armies marching to his land are on his side, and to find out what’s going on in the World Tree. We must move quickly, of course; but Tyrande knows what she’s doing, especially against Azshara. We should have time to organize reinforcements.”

“No,” Thalyssra said, and the dread in her voice would have made Jaina’s blood run cold if it still flowed. “No, I believe we may already be too late. I hadn’t realized—I’m a fool. If the Alliance hasn’t heard from her either since the night of the attacks, then Tyrande is missing. And Azshara would not have waited for the kaldorei to organize a new chain of command.”

Jaina stared at her. “How do we lose a High Priestess?”

Thalyssra’s face was etched with guilt, a guilt that Jaina could almost understand, “I assumed she was occupied, and we had no word otherwise until all of this started. I never wanted to be the kind of lover who constantly checked on her.”

“I don’t think she’d fault you that,” Anduin assured her.

Jaina nodded, “Then let us focus on what needs to be done now.”

**********

They’d taken Tyrande from her cell. The chains chafed and burned her skin, but out here, she could feel the ocean more strongly. The Moon was still little more than a whisper through the tides, but she allowed it to comfort her, and conserved her strength.

Azshara lounged indolently by the edge of a pool of swirling water, the effect making Tyrande feel vaguely ill as images flickered and spun within. The Queen glanced up as Tyrande was prodded into the chamber, feigning vague disinterest. Tyrande allowed the Naga guards to sweep her feet from under her, softening and falling with the momentum rather than waste time and this opportunity trying to resist over a small humiliation. They threw her to her knees next to the scrying pool, and Tyrande ignored the vague motion sickness of the rapid-fire shifts between images to try to glean what information she could.

“Glorious, is it not?” Azshara’s boredom with whatever was happening seemed temporarily assuaged; the image in the pool solidified on a single viewpoint, Tyrande’s gut twisting at the sight of Naga swarming over the blood-soaked streets of Stormwind. Azshara was too close again, her scent sickly sweet to Tyrande’s nose. “Your former allies at the mercy of my armies.”

“War is never glorious, and rarely necessary.”

“Peace does not suit you.” One of Azshara’s hands stroked the back of Tyrande’s head, before digging into her hair and scalp as she pushed her head closer to the water. “What do you see.”

Tyrande’s voice was even, if just a little bit smug. “I see the First Arcanist turning your army into arcade powder.” 

“A risky gamble, leaving Suramar.”

It meant Valtrois was left behind, Tyrande thought. She was the only one Thalyssra would trust with the defense of the city, and one of the few powerful enough to handle whatever Azshara might throw at them. Azshara might think she was issuing some chilly threat, but as much as Valtrois annoyed her, she’d put her money on the Shal’dorei over anyone in Azshara’s armies.

“Now what’s this?” Azshara said, not waiting for Tyrande to acknowledge her comment on Suramar. “Someone _unexpected_ took my bait.”

The view in the whirlpool grew foggy and blurry. Tyrande narrowed her eyes, trying to see whatever it was that had drawn Azshara’s attention. Somehow, it seemed like it might be important.

When the fog lifted, they were viewing the city from another angle, and though Tyrande tried to mask her reaction it was impossible to hold back the quiet gasp at the sight of Jaina leading the _Scourge_.

Not trusting Azshara’s faux surprise, Tyrande wondered which was supposed to be the hammer and which the anvil with Stormwind in the middle. She tore her eyes from the Scourge charging towards the city and glanced at Azshara.

Azshara was _enraged_, the tendrils that used to be her hair waving in agitation and all of her eyes fixed on Jaina in her longship. She clenched her fists and unclenched them, then lifted two. The pool froze on Jaina’s face, and wild-eyed, Azshara smashed her fists into the water, shattering it like ice. “She dares to mock me?”

“It is not much of a challenge.”

Three of Azshara’s eye swiveled to glare at Tyrande. “Silence your tongue, or I shall do it for you.”

Tyrande dug her nails into her palm and bit back a retort that might have gotten her another set of bruises. It was better to wait and watch than antagonize Azshara _too_ much. As badly as she needed to get a few verbal wins in, it was much more important to try to gain any sort of insight into what was going on in the rest of the world.

The whirlpool had repaired itself, and Tyrande focused on what it was showing instead. It was a strange thing to pin her hope upon, and yet, there it was; the Scourge fighting alongside the living against the Naga. Jaina wasn’t just _mocking_ Azshara, she was spitting in her eye.

Good girl. Tyrande had a dozen questions that would have to wait until she was free of this place. Her eyes flicked to Azshara and she raised her eyebrows as if to ask ‘am I allowed to speak now?’

Azshara ignored her, instead turning to one of the Naga in the room with them. “Make sure that our Siren is not captured. Kill her if you must, but she cannot be taken prisoner. The High Priestess should be on her way to join our main attack force and take command.”

“Main attack force?” Tyrande jerked her head towards the whirlpool. “What was _that_, then?”

Again, Azshara grabbed Tyrande's hair and pushed her face towards the pool. “Watch.”

**********

“I’m beginning to suspect the sensor net and blockade was _completely_ useless.” Valtrois nudged a dead naga with the toe of her boot and crinkled her nose as the sound it made.

“It was only really a token effort at best,” Stellagossa remarked. “Designed to make everyone feel good about letting Azshara go.” She stepped around Valtrois and over another corpse, tapping her right forefinger in the air as she counted the number of dead Naga. “Much like this attack was also a token effort at best. They didn’t even bring along their better spellcasters.”

Stella sounded disappointed. Valtrois folded her hands behind her back and took her place at Stella’s side. “Eleven here. A few other groups in other parts of the city. It’s like they just wanted to keep us too busy to pay much attention to goings on elsewhere.”

“Yes, well, it wasn’t even all that entertaining.” Stella pouted, “I wish I’d been here for that assassination cluster you had to deal with. That sounded like fun.”

Valtrois agreed with her lover, lifting her hand to her face and tapping her lips with two fingers as she considered her course of action. “Well, I have fulfilled my obligation to the First Arcanist and Suramar is made safe. Therefore I am faced with two choices.”

“And those are?”

“Pour myself a glass of wine and invite Arcanist Elissandra to our bedchambers, or leave her in charge of the city while we investigate a hunch of mine.”

“I would recommend option two,” Stella said, rolling her eyes.

“Pity, I found an old vintage from—“ Valtrois fell silent as Stella leaned in close, breath hot on her ear.

“Have you perhaps considered that, sometimes, I’d rather have you all to myself?”

The only sign that her words had any effect on Valtrois, was a slight stiffening of her spine, but it was enough for Stella to chuckle and answer for her. 

“I don’t think you have.”

“We have had plenty of experience. Together.” And yet, Valtrois couldn’t deny that she often sought the company of others, with or without Stellagosa. She had an open mind and honestly a heart big enough for others, though she was loathe to admit that latter part. Alarmed, she asked, “You’re not getting jealous, are you?”

She’d never heard of a dragon getting jealous. As far as she knew they didn’t tend to be monogamous, which is one of the things that made her perfect to Valtrois.

“Of course not. I know how you are and I’d never dream of asking you to be anyone else.” Stella cupped her cheek and smiled teasingly, “But once in awhile, I’d like it to just be us.”

Valtrois sighed, and leaned into Stella’s hand. “I love you, you know. I _could_ be a little more considerate…Of your feelings. So…” She looked down at the blood soaking the bottoms of their robes. “Let us clean up and deal with my hunch.”

“If your hunch is going to end up with us walking through more dead naga, it would be counter-productive to change.”

“And here I was hoping you’d get my hint,” Valtrois replied with a smirk. She started to create a portal, only for it to be redirected by some outside force. Frowning, she tried again, and then a third time.

“The just-us can wait until the current crisis is passed.” 

“Agreed… Curious. There’s something preventing my portals. Probably the same thing that was interfering with my scrying bowl.”

Stella rolled her shoulders, her body stretching and elongating rapidly until she stood before Valtrois in all her dragon beauty. “Climb on, my love.”

“You’re always so beautiful.” Valtrois ran her hands along the scales of Stellagosa’s neck, imagining all the things they could do together in this form, once they had the time. Once she’d allowed herself that singular moment to admire her dragon, she climbed elegantly up to Stella’s back. “I’ll message Elissandra on the way. We’ll want to bring in help once I’ve eliminated the interference.”

Giving her head a shake, Stella spread her wings out and then lifted off. “Where are we going?”

Gripping onto Stella as tightly as she could, Valtrois called out, “Kaldrassil!”

The dragon banked, sweeping out over the sea, east and a little south. She picked up speed, faster than any ship or flying craft; or any other dragon, in Valtrois’ utterly unbiased opinion.

Hopefully it would be fast enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be going to biweekly updates for April, so update next week then April 14th!


	25. The Siege of Kaldrassil Part I

Smoke drifted through the silent trees, the only light in the darkness the flickering firelight and sliver of the moon hanging low over Kaldrassil. The smoke was thick and heavy, an acrid smell that was as familiar as it was terrifying and accompanied by a distant crackling that sent sweat down Yukale’s spine as she ran.

She stuck to the shadows, a precious package clasped tightly in her arms. Around her, there were the whispers of hundreds of feet and paws and hooves as others ferried their own packages, and over _that_ and over the sound of the crackling fire, steel clashed against steel. It was the fiercest fighting she’d seen in years and while part of her itched to stay, she had something much more important to do. 

Air displaced nearby and an axe nearly removed her head as she ducked out of the way at the last moment. A naga warrior surged forward with a watery battle cry. Yukale tossed her package into the air, twirling around on her heel and deflecting his attack with one of her daggers. In the same smooth movement she kicked away from him, catching her package before sprinting away as fast as her legs could carry her. 

The package giggled.

“Shh!”

Ahead of her, a stag whistled and she leapt forward, grasping and holding on as it picked up speed. Yukale carefully tied the child to the druid before letting go. She hit the ground and rolled it until she skidded to a stop. Then picking herself up, she started to jog back towards Moonshadow.

The fires at least hadn’t spread too far; a lot of work had gone into making the tree magically fire _resistant_ but it wasn’t fire _proof_. Given sufficient time and motivation someone could probably burn it down and Yukale still had nightmares about that possibility.

Of more pressing concern was the battle waging within the city and the emergency evacuation that the battle was ensuring. Yukale hadn’t intended to be on Kaldrassil for more than a few hours tonight; but that was exactly when the Naga had attacked, and the attack had been overwhelming; Nearly a hundred Naga had scaled the trunk and come in from the northwest side of Moonshadow, and hundreds more had been teleported in despite the barriers designed to prevent such a thing. 

There were few mages powerful enough to just _bring down_ an entire World Tree’s magical defenses, let alone defenses installed by _First Arcanist Thalyssra_. And Jaina was as unlikely voluntarily do so as Thalyssra herself. Either Azshara herself had done it, or there had been inside help. Either possibility gave Yukale chills.

She paused a moment, before deciding that one more rogue wasn’t going to make too much of a difference in either the battle or the evacuation. But one rogue might be able to collect information that would be invaluable in defending the World Tree, and they needed to know the truth.

While there were other cities Yukale knew better, she still knew Moonshadow well, avoiding the fighting by darting through groves of trees and lush alleys. On top of a roof overlooking the Temple, Yukale tried to get an accurate count of the Naga forces. Not an easy task, with the fighting and the naga flowing through the streets like many rivers. To make matters worse, they’d set up portals through which streamed countless more of their forces. Any who didn’t surrender or flee were quickly overwhelmed by the surprise attack and sheer numbers and many of those were put to the sword.

Yukale tried to do the math; she’d gotten one radio report of Naga in Stormwind before they’d attacked Kaldrassil and unless one of these attacks was a feint, Azshara had a much larger army than anyone thought possible.

Judging from the scale of this attack, Stormwind _had_ to be the feint. Yukale shifted on her feet, crouching low as she studied the portals. She wasn’t a mage, but she had a few ideas on how to take them out...

********

Azshara had forced Tyrande to watch; but even if she hadn’t, Tyrande would not have looked away from the destruction of her people and her city. They deserved to have her bear witness, even if they couldn’t know that she was. They deserved that respect, and they deserved the compassion of her breaking heart.

She was right in the middle of the action, Azshara’s illusion spell putting her right into the middle of the fighting. Her eyes and throat burned from the smoke, and the sounds of her people dying too loud in her ears. Dark violet blood stained the streets and the temples, the markets and the homes.

But they _fought_. Goddess did they fight. Tooth and nail and claw, feral and vicious; and for every inch of Kaldrassil the Naga took they paid for it in blood and bone and sinew. One priestess tore a Naga’s throat out with her teeth, and clawed at the next as though she were a Nightsaber in Kaldorei form, before an arrow struck her in the shoulder. She barely wavered, picking up a fallen trident and attacking in a blind rage. Another arrow slowed her down as she impaled an unfortunate Naga sorceress. The priestess staggered up the street, eyes flashing. Three more arrows to her chest, a third to her back. 

And still she fought.

Her captors focused on such displays as much as Tyrande did. She raged with her people, and grieved with them, and if, by chance, she might have noticed the civilians fleeing or children whisked away by clever druids and quick rogues, she kept her attention from them so as to keep Azshara from noticing as well.

This was her city, her forest, her tree. _None_ knew it as well as she and her people and every last one would fight to the death. A distant, bitter memory came with the scent of smoke; but for a twist of fate, the Horde would have faced this same battle. Tyrande allowed herself a little satisfaction at the thought.

The priestess from earlier had finally collapsed, her robes now drenched with her blood. A Naga lifted his spear, and she gazed definiantly up at him. “Zin-Tyrand.”

The spear came down just as the back of a hand struck Tyrande. She spat out blood and grinned viciously at her former acolyte, but she said nothing; nothing could sting more than witnessing the Kaldorei venerate Tyrande instead of Azshara.

Looking down at Tyrande with barely concealed hatred, Alyssa turned away and poke into a magical relay. “Do not damage the temple. We need it. _I_ need it, to dedicate it to our Queen. She will be very displeased were it to fall. The rest of the city can be leveled for all I care. But the temple must _stand_.”

Visions of snapping Alyssa’s neck swam in Tyrande’s mind, taking the edge off of an anger that had been building with every Kaldorei defender that fell. No, better yet, she’d carve each of their names into that traitor’s face so that she would be forced to stare at them every time she looked in a mirror.

In the magically induced vision, roads buckled and the ground shook as a tall building suddenly collapsed onto a battalion of Naga, disrupting the portals. Tyrande caught a glimpse of her people as they fled the scene and smiled triumphantly. “You may take Kaldrassil, witch. But you will _never_ hold her.”

She felt a pinch in the back of her mind, and all went blank.

********

To Aveline Dawnguard, Kaldrassil was a second home and would have been that way even if she hadn’t been married to the Archdruid. For twenty-five years she and Manadh had traveled together and seen more heartbreak and devastation than could be counted. She’d lost _every_ home she’d had; She would not let this home fall, too.

Fingering the stylized nightsaber patch on her shoulder, she leaned against a tree, waiting and listening. As a Paladin, stealth wasn’t exactly her forte; there was no way for her to hide and if she was honest, she wasn’t inclined to. She’d much rather march into battle and face the enemy for good or ill. And maybe she’d spent too much time talking with Orcs, but it _felt_ right. The Light was a tool, and she liked to wield it like a hammer and shield.

Pushing off from the tree, she started to walk, drawing her sword and hefting her shield as she moved. Sunlight filtered through the treetops, scattering golden light across her dark skin and dull, battleworn red armor. She kept up a quick pace until she was in a large clearing. Directly across from her was a Naga strike force. Aveline casually counted sixteen Naga and she smiled as she raised her shield and tapped it with her sword. “The odds are a little unfair, but _maybe_ you can take me.”

The patrol rushed into the clearing, the first reaching her in moments just in time for Aveline to smash her face in with her shield. As rest of the patrol filled the clearing, Druids dropped from above like jaguars and rogues stepped out of the shadows to slit throats and stab backs. Aveline kept her shield up, but watched in pride as her adopted Kul Tiran daughter roared in bear form and tore a Naga Sorceress apart.

A nightsaber shifted into humanoid form next to her. “You make attractive bait.”

Aveline inclined her head to her wife, giving the Archdruid a pleasant smile, “They’ll catch on, eventually. Look at Belinda go.”

A scream ripped through the forest, accompanied by a wet crunching sound. The ground exploded beneath them as dozens of Naga emerged from hiding. A trap within a trap. 

Acting on instinct, Aveline shoved Manadh back. “Go!”

“I’m not--” Manadh barely had a chance to object before Aveline had thrown her onto the back of their daughter.

“You’re the Archdruid and Tyrande is missing. You _can’t_ die.” The last thing Aveline saw of her wife as Belinda bore her away with other retreating forces was her casting a spell.

Thorns wound their way around Aveline’s armor and shield. She turned her attention to the chaos. Manadh and Belinda had escaped and while she had no intention of dying, she’d see the rest of them to safety for as long as she could still stand. 

She waded into combat, decapitating a Naga and bashing several more with her shield. “Fall back!” 

Druids picked up Rogues and bolted for safety, though in one case the rogue was carrying a druid in her arms. But a few remained behind, covering the retreat. Most of them would live to fight another day.

One druid, an old looking bear with ragged fur and ancient wisdom in his eyes, looked at her, before putting himself between her and the battle. Aveline backed away, understanding. 

_Someone_ had to protect the Archdruid. Aveline retreated, slinging her shield onto her back and willing the light to put wings on her feet. But something nagged at her as she fled into the forest; where was Whisperwind? And for that matter, where was _Stormrage?_

********

While the Naga portals wouldn’t be down forever, they’d at least bought enough time for the bulk of the Kaldorei resistance to flee into the forests of Kaldrassil. While they attempted to regroup, Yukale led a small team of volunteers from the Vanguard back the way they’d come, both obscuring their trail and laying traps.

Mostly simple snares and pits, though some of the Vanguard were too clever by half; explosives and acid, even a series of arcane bombs designed to only react to Naga. 

Heavy boots heralded the arrival of someone who wasn’t a Naga, though Yukale still drew her weapons on a just in case basis. But she recognized Dawnguard. “Oh good you’re alive. My sister would have Sylvanas raise you just so she could kill you again.”

“I doubt they’re that far behind me, but some of the others bought us time. What’s the plan?”

Yukale looked around and gave a signal, “We let them trip the traps, then finish off the rest. Come here.”

As soon as Aveline was in range, the world became foggy and grey. Yukale grinned at her. “Remember reckoning bombs?”

Aveline’s smile in response was positively delightful, and Yukale poisoned her blades while they waited.

It wasn’t all that long before the first trap caught a Naga in a snare. And then another, and then there were explosions and the crackle of arcane magic.

But not even Yukale expected how _bright_ the light from Aveline would be when she unleashed the stored up power. It blinded and burned the Naga that weren’t immediately destroyed, and when Yukale’s vision returned to normal the survivors were either dangling from trees, or had retreated.

“What about them?” Someone asked. “We can’t leave them like that, can we?”

“We could keep them for a prisoner exchange,” Aveline said. A part of her almost believed such a thing might be possible. “But that might be complicated. What would Tyrande do?”

Unhappily, Yukale shook her head. She already knew what Tyrande would do. She also knew what her sister would order as Archdruid, and there was precious little that she could think of as an alternative.

Yukale sheathed her swords and drew a knife. “Slit their throats.”

********

Sylvanas stepped through a portal and there were more undead than she had seen in one place since the Third War. Thousands of them, maybe ten times as many as there were Forsaken. And yet every last one of them looked at Jaina the same way the Forsaken looked at Sylvanas.

As their savior.

Sylvanas Windrunner did not get emotional. She did not choke up, she did not cry, she did not feel things as deeply or keenly as the living. But she felt a keen sense of pride in her wife, among a dozen other feelings that clogged up her insides as she stared at the Scourge. No.

Not the Scourge.

Simply the newest members of the Forsaken.

Once, years ago, Jaina had given Sylvanas hope that her people would not go extinct. And today she’d done it again. And for once Sylvanas had no comment; she could only touch on Jaina’s mind three simple words. Jaina turned and smiled at her, the words echoing back through Sylvanas’s mind.

_I love you._

“What did you do?” Sylvanas asked, finally, her eyes moving from the Scourge, to an understandably shaken Anduin, and then to Jaina.

“I called to them.” Jaina’s voice echoed through the cobblestone streets, somewhat dulled by the press of bodies. “I found the spark of their souls and called to them.” She smiled at Sylvanas, taking a step as if she wanted to be closer, before remembering where they were.

“I remember how that felt,” Sylvanas said. “The rage I felt. I half did it out of _spite_, I think.”

“There must always be a Lich King,” Jaina said mockingly. Perhaps there’d been some spite in her actions, too. She held her arms out. “But we can have the rest of this conversation later.”

A portal wobbled to life in front of her, flickering and faint before winking out. She tried again, narrowing her eyes as she poured considerable power into it. “Fuck me, the wards are down but it’s getting misdirected.”

“Azshara?”

“It has to be.”

“Can you punch through it?” 

Jaina nodded, “But that would take too long, and if I did it wrong, well, do you want to end up fused to a Night Elf?”

She turned around, taking in their gathered forces, then whirled back to Sylvanas. “Gilneas. Hold on to your ass, I’m going to port us all to Gilneas.”

Sylvanas heard Anduin’s confused shout, and then the arcane energy engulfed them all.

********

On any other day, Valtrois would have enjoyed the flight. The wind in her hair, the peace and quiet of flying thousands of feet in the air with only the wind and the sound of her lover’s wings. Stellagosa was at her most beautiful like this, rippling muscle and sinew, eyes bright with excitement. But even _Valtrois_ could be serious when the situation warranted it and Thalyssra wasn’t around to be kept on her toes. That woman needed so much babysitting, _honestly_.

Valtrois leaned over and stroked Stella’s neck. “We’re almost there, slow down, darling.”

Stella slowed her flight as Valtrois conjured a spyglass. She peered through it, then lowered it, raising both of her eyebrows before peering through it again. “Well _that_ shall be a problem.”

“What is it?”

“Mm.” Valtrois cast a spell allowing Stellagosa to see great distances. The dragon’s low rumbly curse reverberated through Valtrois’s body and Valtrois replied, “Indeed.”

Smoke curled up from Moonshadow, on Kaldrassil’s southern branches and surrounding the World Tree and resting on the roots were hundreds of Naga. Valtrois could make out an absurdly large number of hulking brutes and sea giants as well, and gigantic dark shadows patrolled the water outside the shallows. Kaldrassil had fallen.

“We need to go higher,” Valtrois said. “And bring us in on the western side.”

“You won’t be able to breathe.”

“Leave that to me, darling. Higher!”

Stella banked, catching an updraft that carried them another thousand feet, to where the air was dangerously thin for mortals. Valtrois locked herself in much more tightly, casting a spell that made it only marginally easier to breathe. It was really how _cold_ it was that was getting to her. She looked down at her fingers, which were starting to turn a shade of blue that was decidedly not natural for the Shal’dorei.

And then the dragon dove, tucking her wings back for a quick, dangerous descent in an effort to avoid detection. As they plummeted towards Kaldrassil, Valtrois disabled every spell she had running. No sense in the Naga detecting her magic before she was ready to be revealed, and they were low enough again she could breathe naturally.

Deftly weaving her way through the trees, Stellagosa alighted beneath a large oak, just north and west of Moonshadow. She quickly shifted, turning on Valtrois and taking her hands in her warm ones. “Fool.”

“Says the one who loves me,” Valtrois retorted. But she smiled, and let Stella fuss for a minute or two. Once she appeared satisfied, Valtrois pulled her staff off of her back and led the way towards the city. 

Closer now, she could tell most of the fires were out, the smoke the only remnant visible from the air. Moonshadow itself had seen better days; the new and pristine marble had been blackened by soot and blood, and many buildings were badly damaged. 

Valtrois spotted a large gathering and tucked herself in between two trees, Stellagosa close against her back. “Do you feel that? Powerful magic.”

And then, before their eyes, Queen Azshara teleported in, flanked on one side by Tyrande’s favorite acolyte. In front of them knelt Tyrande, bound in more chains than was reasonable but less chains than was probably safe.

Stella gripped Valtrois shoulder. “Do not even think about it.”

Valtrois relaxed, lifting her hand to tap her finger at her lower lip. What to do, what to do… She closed her eyes as wards suddenly snapped into place around the tree.

Oh. So much for using portals to ferry supplies and soldiers then. She reached into her robe, pulling out a crystal decanter. She took a sip from the bottle and then offered it to Stellagosa. “This just got more complicated.”

“We should meet up with the resistance.”

Valtrois perked up at that. “Yes! Lets! It looks like we get to repay a few favors. Come, darling. We can _still_ save the day in time for tea.”

Stella rolled her eyes.“Somehow I doubt it will be that simple.”

“Shh. Let a woman dream.” Valtrois placed a finger over Stella’s lips.

She paused, glancing back just in time to make very brief eye contact with Tyrande. She placed a finger over her own lips, then slipped away from the scene of Azshara Triumphant.

After all, the funny thing about victory was how easily it could slip through one’s grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned last chapter, moving to biweekly for April at least


	26. The Siege of Kaldrassil Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I didn't get any of the buffer I wanted for this fic, it's been difficult to write anything that's not somewhat fluffy for a variety of reasons. But I didn't want to leave you guys hanging for too much longer!

It took less time than even Tyrande had expected for Azshara’s plans to hit a snag. 

She took bitter satisfaction in watching the rage on the Queen’s face as her army’s advance ground to a standstill in the forests of Kaldrassil. The reports that she overheard didn’t tell her much, only that her people had laid traps all throughout the World Tree. There were other tactics that Tyrande could deduce if she let herself, but there was too high a risk that Azshara might glean them from her somehow. 

The Kaldorei had ten thousand years to refine their brand of war and this was their home; a home that they had built with this _exact_ fear in mind.

To do anything else would have been foolish. To not prepare for the Horde to turn on them, or the Alliance, or for Azshara to rise or the Legion to reform or or or…

Kaldrassil was a death trap to any who’d dare invade, and Tyrande had abandoned any pretense of not being paranoid even after the Compact had succeeded.

Her knees and back ached, but there was no respite from her position. At least, out of either foolish pride or simple oversight, they’d locked her within the Temple of Elune and even the magical bindings that held her fast could not keep the Goddess from her. Not _here_. Not in a place dedicated to Elune, and one so recently blessed besides.

“As soon as we’ve secured the rest of the tree,” a voice said, stepping into the temple. “We’ll begin the next phase.”

Tyrande lifted her head from her prayers, watching as Alyssa strutted in. The traitor was wearing _Tyrande’s_ robes, arcane runes stitched into the fabric and other marks of desecration all over it. Alyssa smiled at Tyrande, a vicious, cruel thing. “Good morning.”

“I’m sure you had a busy night, with your head up Azshara’s arse.” Tyrande commented.

She was rewarded with a bloody lip, and took that pain to fuel herself. 

Alyssa glared at her, then took a calming breath and lifted her chin serenely, “If I am blessed, the Goddess shall allow me to be the one to swing the axe and sever your pretty head from your body.”

“Does she know you consider me pretty? Her jealous rages are legendary.”

Miraculously, Tyrande didn't get a backhand for that. Instead, Alyssa leaned over, grabbing Tyrande’s chin and forcing her head up. “You will die, not even worthy to be the dirt on my boots.”

Tyrande smiled. “Are you truly so blessed, child? Why have you not ascended? Brought to a form more pleasing to your queen? If you are so much her most favored acolyte, why are you still like _me?_ Are you so sure that she even _wants_ you?”

Murderous fury flashed in Alyssa’s eyes, but before she could do anything about it, Azshara’s voice crooned, “My darling, is the kindling in place?”

Alyssa’s demeanor changed, the rage fading as though Azhara’s voice was a balm, soothing and reassuring. If Tyrande had any doubts about her loyalty, it was snuffed out on that display of adoration. 

“Almost, my Queen.” Alyssa bowed low, and then straightened. “With sufficient flame, even the magics that protect Kaldrassil will break.”

Ice gripped Tyrande’s heart and ran down her spine. But she kept her mouth shut, kept her ears and her body still and her face perfectly neutral. As though she had been broken and was unaware of all that might be around them.

“Very good. As soon as we are able, I want to begin.” Azshara chuckled lightly and slithered to Tyrande. One of her tentacles forced her chin up, and Tyrande stared up at her with glazed eyes. “You must think me an idiot if you believe for one moment I don’t know you are paying attention.”

Tyrande’s gaze sharpened, and she sneered, “Forgive me for making the obvious assumption.”

The tendril slid around her neck and squeezed hard. “You have always been a spitfire, I will give you that. But let us see how strong you can stand while you watch your people burn their own World Tree.”

Next to Azshara, Alyssa lifted her head proudly, a cruel smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Kaldrassil will burn, and it will be your people who light the torch.”

*******

Starfall was a small settlement on the eastern side of Kaldrassil, overlooking Gilneas and populated by a mixture of Night Elves and Gilnean expatriots. While there were a not-insignificant number of non-Kaldorei on the World Tree, the Gilneans had by far the largest numbers.

And yet, Starfall appeared to be abandoned, only a stray dog laying near the welcome sign and scratching lazily behind its ear.

Two dozen Naga moved in, weapons at the ready. One called out an order, and torches were lit. At the rear of their number, one sorcerer was yanked back, her throat ripped out by sharp teeth. Daggers sank into another, and then a third.

Yellow eyes glimmered from the shrubbery. Somewhere nearby, a wolf howled.

*******

Night had fallen, and the moon, quite full, shone in her glory. Tyrande lifted her head, eyes closed. She thought, somewhere in the night, that she could hear howling. A smile tugged at her lips, only growing wider as a shadow passed over the moon.

The bindings around her ankles started to crack.

*******

“So if teleportation is out of the question, what’s the next step?” Anduin stared up at the World Tree, arms folded and expression hard. With the Naga blockade, bringing in supplies or troops was next to impossible.

It was only a matter of time until the Kaldorei resistance started to stretch thin, assuming it hadn’t already. He turned to Jaina, who was also staring up at the tree. “Thoughts?”

“My scouts who have returned tell me that Azshara has laid traps for any who might attempt to scale Kaldrassil. Arcane, and fire. My Forsaken could swarm the tree, but the losses would be unimaginable, and could do irreparable harm to Kaldrassil besides. It’s almost like she _wants_ us to destroy the tree.” 

My scouts. My Forsaken. Jaina was looking at him like she expected him to object to her not wanting to use the former Scourge as cannon fodder. He simply looked at her, and nodded, “Then we’ll need to figure out another way to end this.”

“We can maintain the siege, Your Majesty.” Jaina nodded once towards him. “We do not require rest, and much fewer supplies. I think it would be the best use of all our resources if we altered our strategies to take that into account.”

“Some of Azshara’s forces have been poking about defenses in Suramar and Orgrimmar again,” Anduin mused. “But if that’s anything but a way to try to split our forces I’ll shave my beard off. Where the hell is Genn...”

“That would be a shame, it suits you.” Jaina nodded at him, giving him a smile. Her voice was quieter now, “I can teleport a small, elite force to assist in Suramar, and rejoin Sylvanas in Orgrimmar myself if necessary.”

Anduin unfolded his arms, looking away from the tree and to the map table they’d set up. The Naga attacks had little green flags; Echo Isles, Suramar, Stormwind, Kaldrassil. There were blue flags to show where smaller strikes had occurred during the larger attacks, and in the days since.

Stromgarde, Orgrimmar, Booty Bay.

Something about that bothered him, but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what was standing out. Every attack save the one on Kaldrassil had used illusion and trickery to inflate the Naga numbers.

“There’s less of them then they want us to believe, but the question is how many? If we underestimate…”

“There are definitely more here than I’m comfortable with,” Jaina admitted. She leaned her hip against the table, eyes growing downcast.

“Jaina. When this is all over…” Anduin put a hand on her arm, and to his relief she didn’t flinch away. “I’d like to talk.”

“Is this ‘we need to have a talk about the whole Scourge and Lich King thing’ or is this ‘we need to talk about Baine?’”

Anduin started, then narrowed his eyes at her smile. “It’s a ‘we need to talk like we used to, _auntie’_.”

Jaina’s expression softened. It was still harder than he was used to, her new default state, but her eyes were still unmistakably _Jaina_. And that, more than anything else going on right now, was reassuring. “I think I’d like that.”

“How are you and Sylvanas?” He asked.

“The Compact is fine.”

“I don’t care about that.” Oh, he did, but not in this context and not right now. 

“We’re fine too. I’ll make portals for your elite force, but there’s something I need to check on first.” Jaina pushed off from the table, letting out a shrill whistle. 

Kirygosa swooped in, circling for several passes before alighting on the ground a few yards away. She approached them, and inclined her head. “What do you need, Lady?”

“We’re taking over the siege,” Jaina announced. “What is the status of my little project?”

_Project?_ Anduin raised his eyebrow, and all Jaina did was wink at him.

“It proceeds apace and will be ready for your final touch within a day.”

“Very good.”

“Jaina?” Anduin asked, unsure if he really wanted to know or not.

“You’ll see, Anduin. Lets just say I’m going to be having a _lot_ of fun.”

*******

The moon helped Tyrande keep track of the days. It would be full on the morrow, and then she would act. But until then, she had to suffer as her people suffered. Until then, she had to watch as the Naga hunted them down, dragging them out of buildings or from trees. Most were put to work, assisting Azshara in the spell she was weaving to break the enchantments on the tree.

Put to work to burn their own home, and very likely themselves along with it. It was a cruel thing to do, with their history of fire, but Azshara and her acolyte seemed to delight in both the small and large cruelties.

The priestess brought before her was _young._ Goddess, but she was barely a child as the Kaldorei reckoned. Young and scared and yet she held it back. She looked to Tyrande and Tyrande held her gaze, drawing strength from Elune and granting that strength to the girl in return. 

_Look to me, child. If I could but switch places with you, I would._

She set her chin, ground her teeth, and locked her eyes onto Tyrande’s as she was forced to the ground. She didn’t cry, as her head was yanked back. As a blade passed across her throat.

_Know that Elune blesses you. Know that you go to her waiting arms. Know that this suffering is not in vain and that Elune will have her vengeance._

The blood of the priestess marred the temple floors, pooling with that of her sisters, as her body was dragged out. 

And Tyrande held her gaze.

*******

Genn cleaned his blade on a Naga’s cloak, staying crouched and low, straining his ears for any sounds around them. The only thing he could hear now were the passive sounds of nature, and the ragged breathing of the people with him. Another patrol killed, but they’d yet to link up with other resistance groups on the tree and while they could use the natural resources of Kaldrassil, it only went so far.

There was a very good chance that Azshara would simply be able to wait until they’d starved or run out of medical supplies and weapons. Though weapons weren’t too much of a problem for Worgen.

He looked across the way, at the traitor who’d saved his life. Being here, on Kaldrassil, fighting for their Kaldorei kin, it was probably the one thing he and Talet might ever see eye to eye on. And just enough for him to look the other way about everything else.

At least until this situation was dealt with. Straightening, he rolled his shoulders and snarled, “Let’s swing back around, they usually have patrols following the patrols.”

Talet tilted her head, lifting one ear and listening. A second later, Genn heard it too; the drone of engines. He raced for the nearest tree, scrambling up it, not caring for secrecy. The engines had gotten closer by the time he’d cleared the canopy and spotted the unmistakable shape of a single Horde airship. 

It turned towards a clearing, the most well defended on Kaldrassil. There were thousands of civilians there, carefully guarded by some of the best warriors Greymane could spare.

The bomb bay doors opened. For a single, terrifying heartbeat, Genn saw a fireball consume Kaldrassil. Genn saw Theramore’s smoking crater. He saw Sylvanas’s smug smile.

A crate dropped out, followed by another, and another, each floating serenely down towards the clearing on a parachute. There were about a dozen in all, before the airship turned sharply, veering northeast.

It was several minutes before Genn could relax his death grip on the tree and scurry down it. The rest of his warriors joined him and he said, incredulously, “The Horde just bought us more time.”


	27. The Siege of Kaldrassil Part III

Water lapped gently against the roots of Kaldrassil, the evening sky clear with a bright moon shining. A small figure walked along one of the massive roots, attention focused on the tree high above.

Thalyssra was going to personally strangle whichever mage Azshara had tasked with creating the new enchantments preventing easy teleportation into the tree. And if that mage was Azshara herself, she’d make it _slow_.

Sweat poured down her skin, her robes sticking to her body and her hair a tangled mess as she lifted her hands and tried again to find a way through. Runes flowed and twisted before her, and she swept at them, moving deeper and deeper into the enchantment. And just when she thought she’d finally found a way to breach it, a magical trap slammed shut.

The feedback loop sent her skidding along the rough bark of the root, and she laid there a moment, breathing heavily. Closing her eyes, she traced the steps she’d taken, looking for what she might have missed.

Honestly, either this was the most intricately woven arcane magic she’d ever encountered, or someone was working in real time to stymie her.

It would take Thalyssra six months of near constant work to craft a system as elaborate as this one, capable of predicting the path an attacker might take and adapting itself to the spell. Most other mages would take _years_ to accomplish such a feat.

Azshara was patient, but Thalyssra refused to believe she would have _missed_ that level of magic being put in place for later activation. Not with how much time she’d spent with Tyrande in Kaldrassil.

Sitting up, she reached into her pouch and pulled out a potion. Downing the entire vial, she stood, lifted her hands once more and dove into the maze-like magic of the Naga enchantment.

Once again, the paths closed as soon as she found them; but instead of going deeper into the magic, this time she followed the thin tendrils of magic, like a trail left behind by whoever was working against her.

Thalyssra got a flash of a face before the connection was severed. She whirled around, whistling, and leapt onto the back of a hippogriff as it swept down. 

That same trail of arcane energy glistened like a thread, and she flew along it as it got thicker and stronger.

On a rock, waves crashing against it, stood a Naga. The same powerful woman from Stormwind who had developed the realistic illusions of a Naga army.

Thalyssra formed a bow from pure energy, drew back a glimmering violet string, and unleashed a bolt of the arcane. The sorceress dodged out of the way, but was blown into the water when the arcane bolt exploded.

Enchanting her lungs, Thalyssra dove in after her. The water was murky, but the trail left behind by the Naga was impossible to miss. She propelled herself after her, throwing out one of her hands and catching the Naga’s tail in a thick block of ice.

The Naga whirled around, water boiling around her hand before a superheated ball of fire shot towards Thalyssra. The ocean bubbled and steamed in the wake of a blast that moved too fast for Thalyssra to dodge.

She caught it in an arcane bubble, drawing the heat and the energy into herself and using that to fuel a counter-attack. 

A tiny ball of energy popped into existence behind the Naga and immediately expanded, consuming several cubic meters of the ocean in Thalyssra’s rage. When the bubbles and steam cleared and the ocean poured into the void left behind, the only thing that remained of the sorceress was a pair of silver bangles sinking slowly into the depths below.

Not wasting any time, Thalyssra dove into the enchantment again. It was still clever, but without the mage at the other end, she was able to break through in seconds. With a satisfying swipe of her hands, the runes shattered.

A sudden, intense surge of power was the only warning she had before an attack came from behind. A hastily thrown up shield saved her life, even as she was sent spinning and twisting through the water. Thalyssra regained her senses as Azshara swam for her, all six hands glowing and her face marred by slashes. There was so much rage in her eyes that Thalyssra could _feel_ it.

“You must have really liked that mage,” Thalyssra called out, before she waved and disappeared into the nether.

****

***

“Darkness and Light are but reflections of each other.”

Tyrande sat cross legged on the grass, a light breeze rustling her hair and teasing at the hem of her dress. The moon was so bright, this night, hanging so close that she could almost reach up and touch it.

She opened her eyes, as brilliantly white as the shining moon and smiled. Elune’s blessing washed over her, the light caressing her skin like the hands of a lover, sinking into her, deeper and deeper until her very bones were suffused with the light.

A whisper in her ear, a gentle embrace in her mind. Slowly, Tyrande stood, wriggling her feet in the soft grass and rich earth of her homeland. She started to walk, the comforting presence of Elune enveloping her. 

Her foot stepped on something hard, that crunched. She looked down at a bone, sticking out of the earth. When she lifted her head, the path was strewn with the bodies of her people, and in the distance she heard the crackling of magic and the screams of battle.

Tears burned down her cheeks.

A hand took hers, another hand lifting up and cupping her face, soft lips brushing at the tears.

After a moment, Tyrande started to walk again, the battle now fading behind her. Before her, the path stretched on, becoming well worn under her passing feet. But the presence with her remained, a hand in her hand, the other occasionally brushing at her hair or pressing into her back. Steady. Loving. Trusting.

The moon set, and rose, and set again. It passed into shadow and returned to the light. ‘

As she walked the path, she caught glimpses of others, on other paths. A group of Highborne marched into the sea. A druid flew overhead, catching a current, seeming to drift aimlessly. Kaldorei huntresses and druids guarded the forests in an eternal vigil.

The grass gave way to sand and dirt and rock, and above her rose the obelisks of the Qiraji. Again she stepped on bone, again bodies lay broken and bleeding before her. Kaldorei and Dragon and Qiraji all. But then the sands shifted, and she continued to walk, head up, back straight, tears dried.

The presence remained, comforting Tyrande in the fact that her anger and grief was reflected back to her. Understood. A part of her, the Darkness and the Light.

And still the moon rose and set. 

The forest returned to her with bird song. Moonlight trickled down through the canopy, flickering across her skin, casting her in shadow interspersed with light. 

All too soon, there were bones again. Scorched earth. Cenarius lay slain before her, his life’s blood pouring out like a river. Kaldorei lay strewn about, the bodies of humans and dwarves scattered among them. And up, rising to the heavens was the dessicated corpse of Archimonde hanging off of the dead World Tree.

And though Tyrande passed under the shadow of death, Elune’s light remained with her. 

But that death was _everywhere_. The mountains were corpses, the rivers blood, the seas bones, spirits and ghosts wandering the desolation lost to all thought and reason.

One war bled into the next until all Tyrande could see were the dead and all she could hear was their rattling breathes. They watched her, some reached for her, but she held her head high even as her heart broke for them.

She crested a hill built on the backs of dead children and was blasted by heat. The world _burned_, fire devouring everything and anything like a ravenous beast, flames like fingers reaching up and grasping Teldrassil between them and tearing it down branch by branch.

A hand at her back, a whispered word, and Tyrande pushed forward. She pushed through the fire, past gnarled, charred hands grasping at her ankles, past the terrified wails in the Temple of Elune.

The moon rose, darkness eclipsing it, and it set, and it rose, still dark, still covered, the darkness of Elune’s rage burning through Tyrande’s veins. 

But a single seed became a sapling, and that sapling became a tree, and it grew, and it grew out of the ashes until the moon rested in the boughs of Kaldrassil. Elune’s whispers became her voice and her voice became song and far, far below Tyrande floated Azeroth and beside her stood a woman.

Midnight skin was dusted with a billion billion glittering stars. Hair the color of moonlight in the woods tumbled down her back and brushed the ground while eyes like the burning sun regarded Tyrande as though she were an old friend. Long, elegantly pointed ears twitched in amusement, dark lips turning upward as Elune touched her cheek.

In her darkest moments, in the depths of her worst despair, Tyrande had wondered if Elune had forsaken her. And now, _now_ ...

“Have I _ever_ left your side?”

“No,” Tyrande whispered, voice cracking, as she stood flanked by ten thousand years of ghosts.

Elune pulled her close, arms around her as real as they’d ever been. Her scent was sweet, reminding Tyrande of the dusk lily, and her bare skin was warm. Tyrande wanted to sink into the embrace; lovers came and went, but her soul would always belong to Elune. And Elune would always walk with her.

“Take the light and the dark, both.” Elune leaned down, pressing her lips against Tyrande’s brow. 

Tyrande’s eyes snapped open, one eye blazing with the cold fire of the moon. Her bindings cracked and shattered into dust and she surged forward, slashing her nails across Azshara’s face before jabbing her other hand into the Queen’s chest, digging, digging _digging_.

She spoke with the voices of a million dead, she snarled with Elune’s timbre and her fingers dug deeper into Azshara’s chest, “Before I am through with you, I will rip out your heart and _feast_ upon it.”

Energy crackled around Azshara and Tyrande flipped back, landing on the smooth stones of the Temple. She rolled out of the way of the first attack and jumped over the next. The light of the moon guided her, step by step and second by second, until she leapt through a window, leaving the raging queen behind.

****

***

“If we don’t move soon,” Genn said. “We will lose this opportunity.”

Valtrois was only half listening. About a dozen children had surrounded Stellagossa and were _climbing_ all over her. Really. Just like that, the great dragon was a playground.

One of Stella’s eyes met Valtrois’s gaze and Valtrois sighed heavily. All right, all right, it was _endearing_ and almost made her want to take back her vow to be childless.

At least, adoption might not be out of the question; orphans had always been in too much supply.

“It’ll be risky,” the paladin replied. She stood close to the Archdruid, as she always did. By Valtrois’ count, there were only a few champions here. Most of them were veterans of previous wars, which was both a sad state of affairs and a welcome one, as far as she was concerned.

Who, after all, was better to wage a war than the people who made a point of it?

“Let’s do it,” She chipped in. All eyes turned to her. “It is risky, yes, but this kind of warfare always is. Was it not some of you who helped teach my people how to wage a rebellion?”

“Yes,” Yukale said, folding her arms. “If we can get more of their forces into the forest we’ll have the advantage.”

“Exactly,” Valtrois proposed. “With the right incentive and bait, they’ll slither into our traps.”

Genn opened his mouth to speak, but fell silent as a snow-white owl fluttered into the clearing and landed on the war table they’d put together out of logs and a crate from the air drop. He stared at it, then snapped his head to the forbidding darkness of the forest.

Tyrande Whisperwind strode out of the shadows, robes tattered and torn. Blood dripped from her fingertips as she approached Genn and the others around the war table, but what was most striking was the High Priestess’s eyes.

One bright as the full moon, and the other dark like the new.

“You escaped,” Genn declared, breathless.

“Elune granted me her strength,” Tyrande replied, looking around as other fighters and civilians approached her, forming a loose circle around her. Children, druids, priestesses, merchants and sentinels. 

One of the latter reached for her, tears streaking down a bloodstained face. Her armor was rent and torn and her other hand was bound in a sling, but she looked upon Tyrande as if she was Elune herself. Someone let out a soft cry and a man sobbed and Tyrande was quickly swarmed by her people. They grasped at her shredded robes, stroked her hair and her face, the clearing filled with expressions of awe and broken sobbing. A priestess fell to her knees at Tyrande’s side, a child clung to her leg, and then more and more of the Kaldorei knelt. One or two of the Worgen did too. 

“No,” Tyrande rasped, voice thick. Imploring, she raised her voice, reaching to pull people to their feet. “No, no I am no _Queen_. I am one of you and I always have been.”

“You are our _vengeance_,” someone called out. 

Tyrande didn’t seem to have a response to that, just yet.

Valtrois felt her throat close up, just a little. Thalyssra’s influence, no doubt.

A young priestess brought Tyrande a robe, and a cloth to clean her hands. Tyrande caught her arm before she could pull away, and kissed her brow, murmuring something softly that made the girl smile.

“Vengeance? Now _that_, I can give you.” And then she lifted her head as she pulled the robe around her shoulders, looking around, trying to catch as many eyes as she could. “We will lure Azshara into our domain and we will show them the same mercy they showed us. _We_ shall be vengeance. We shall be night incarnate. We shall tear their _throats_ out.”

Her eyes fell onto Valtrois, “What word is there from Stormwind? Suramar?”

“Stormwind stands,” Valtrois assured her. “Last I heard a siege was being planned and, ah, Proudmoore is supplying the reinforcements.” She opted to save those particular details for later. “The First Arcanist has been attempting to breach the enchantments Azshara set up around Kaldrassil. If she succeeds, our mages can teleport in and out at will.”

Tyrande nodded. “I want volunteers for this. There is no shame in staying behind to protect our vulnerable. We will need to prepare the children and the injured to be evacuated from the World Tree as soon as we can safely do so.”

The Archdruid stepped forward, nodding her head. “We’ve been setting traps as much as we could.”

“Have we been in communication with anyone?”

“I managed to get a few druids out--”

Tyrande held up her hand, tilting her head as her ears twitched. And then, a second later, Valtrois heard it too. The sound of feathers on the wind, the beating of wings.

Through an opening in the canopy swarmed dozens of figures; ravens and bats that swirled and flew around. They started to land throughout the clearing, transforming into trolls of various sorts, and Tauren and hulking Kul Tirans. Three Worgen huffed and there were a few Kaldorei scattered among the new comers as well.

Last of all a large raven landed, shifting and transforming until Malfurion Stormrage looked down at Tyrande.

He clasped her shoulder. “Where do you need me, my friend?”

Tyrande lifted her hand and placed it upon his. “Your teeth, Malfurion. We need your _teeth_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you love your goddess to cope


End file.
